


You Feel Like Hope

by honorarytenenbaum



Category: Fleabag (TV), Fleabag (TV) RPF, Hunt for the Wilderpeople (2016), New Zealand Actor RPF
Genre: Catholic guilt maybe, F/M, Fleabag!AU, Hunt for the Wilderpeople - Freeform, PWB gimme strength, Priest Kink, Slow Burn, hierophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:48:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 25,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25859215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honorarytenenbaum/pseuds/honorarytenenbaum
Summary: Do you want to hear a joke? I got a good one for you. A rather ruggedly handsome, directionless minister of a small town village slowly falls for a mysterious parishioner that started appearing in his parish one day.Sorry, there isn’t any punchline. Just pent up infatuation, lust and heartbreak in between.
Relationships: Fleabag/Priest (Fleabag), Taika Waititi/Reader
Comments: 15
Kudos: 51





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this is Hunt of the Wilderpeople!AU loosely based on Fleabag where Taika’s character is the Hot Priest and the reader’s Fleabag. I’m changing it up since I want to do some non-RPF for once.

She kept coming back to my parish.

I found myself absentmindedly staring at her during my homilies and sermons. At times where my mind should be on the Holy Scriptures, I found myself wondering what words sound like in her voice. I know all too well that I'll never get the chance to hear them myself. Still, it compels me. 

She compels me every time. And I don’t even know her name.

Being a minister in a small town meant my parishioners can be counted on one hand. Seeing 10 people here on a Sunday is either a miracle or somebody has died. On a normal service, there are five people inside of the church apart from me, but only two out of 5 gives a damn about what I have to say. This isn’t exactly the most religious town. I’m not the most religious minister either. But like my parish, I’m the only one this town’s got.

“He’s tricky like that, Jesus. So let us pray, to Jesus, please, and make it a bit easier to get through those doors, uh, to find you and your bounty of delicious confectionary,” I rambled my way out of my homily. Lifting my gaze up from the Bible, I observed the seven mourners present in the wake. Was it bad that I feel nothing? Was it bad that I’m not sorry for their loss at all?

For a good 20 seconds, I let them suffer from the awkward silence with me. I think this cheeky tactic was one of the few remaining joys I had in my life. I bit the insides of my lips in order to suppress the trickster inside of me. 

No one seemed to notice it at all. And with that, I cherished my little hollow victory. That was until my wandering gaze landed on her—the mystery parishioner. 

Sitting away from the mourners, she was the only one who met my gaze. I cleared my throat as soon as her judgemental stare bore on me. “Thank you. Thank you,” I whipped my head to address the parish’s organist waiting by my side. “Selina, take it away.”

The parish swelled with the sounds of “The Old Rugged Cross.” By default, I started nodding my head to its melody. Not to mock it in any way. I genuinely like it. Besides, Selina’s talents shine when she plays that old hymn. While the parish mourned in silence, I saw the recently widowed Hector in my peripheral vision walking out of the wake. I followed him out of the holy grounds with my gaze. I wish I can walk out with him, share a ciggy or two, and help him process his grief like an actual minister. 

But I chose not to burden him with my mediocrity. So instead of doing my supposed calling, I stayed put. I didn’t do anything to no one’s surprise. 

The door slammed to signify Hector’s exit. Averting my gaze away from his absence, it accidentally met hers again. 

Here come the feelings I thought I’ve forgotten—helplessness and shame.

The wake ended without a hitch after Hector left. When the mourners left to process their grief at home, I processed my concerning apathy at the back of the parish with a cancer pack. My parishioners and Selena aren’t kept in the dark about my vices. They’re religious—not dumb. 

I let the ashes fall on the dewy grass beneath my feet. Leaning on the wooden-paned wall, I looked up at the sky with arms crossed and the cigarette hanging between my fingers. I tried to remember what it was like to care about what I do. I tried to remember what it’s like to know what I do. 

My eyes bore into the dull gray clouds hovering over me. All of a sudden, I felt like a seven-year-old boy desperately pleading his father’s affection, seeking for answers and clarity. I huffed over the overwhelming sense of infantilization I placed on myself.

I kept wallowing in silence until I heard her. It would argue that it’s almost heaven-sent. 

“Got a light, father?” 

It’s a voice I don’t mind hearing when my eyes open in the morning. It’s a voice I don’t mind scolding me for an hour over a petty argument. It’s a voice I don’t mind getting infatuated over. 

I looked up and saw my mystery parishioner in all of her glory. Messy half-bun, tired yet captivating eyes, and the muted blue flowy frock she always wore got my voice stuck in my throat. With a nod, I lit up the cigarette hanging from her plump pink lips. 

Women like her are the reasons I regret being a man of the cloth. Little did I know, she was the biggest regret in my life waiting to happen.

I offered her a soft smile. After one puff out of her newly lit cigarette, she returned my soft smile to say her thanks. We leaned on the wooden-paneled walls together. Nicotine smoke and curiosity surrounded both of us. I stood there as I waited for one of us to say another word

In silence, I try to muster up the courage to ask her something. But my brain ran on empty as my mouth ran dry with it. 

“So, do you come here—“ When the question finally came to me, I turned towards her and opened my mouth. It took me a while to churn a question. Once I did have something in mind, she started walking away as if nothing happened. 

My eyes widen from her cold distant nature. After a dry chuckle, I took a long drag of my cancer stick. “Fuck you then,” I said in passing with a shrug. 

Her head whipped towards my direction once she heard my sudden burst of profanity. For a moment, she stood there with furrowed brows and a glare, unsure of whether she should be offended or amused. I offered no explanation over my words. I only offered a smile that knew I got her wrapped around my finger. 

What transpired between us slowly dawned on her. Once it hit her, her glare turned into a beaming smile before walking away from me for now. The smile that I offered her stayed plastered on my face until she was gone. It only disappeared when I took another long drag.

 _Shit._ She’ll fuck me up, wouldn’t she?


	2. Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mystery parishioner hasn’t attended mass in a long time. But when their lives’ crossed in her father’s wake, he immediately made her wanted to get on her knees and pray for penitence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meet the mystery parishioner; lonely, complicated and incredibly horny. There's no smut yet. But at least, we'd get to witness their first meeting in her point-of-view.

I found myself coming back to his parish.

They say all things are possible with God. When I first came down to his parish, I learned this immediately. I was expecting to burn soon as I took a step inside. I’m not exactly the holiest of women. In this day and age, I doubt that such a woman exists, even in quaint countryside towns.

My plethora of sins came in abundance. At this point, the seven deadly sins became more of a checklist to me than a warning. I got sloth, gluttony and lust so far. The four other sins would probably come into my life some time in the future.

Mix them all and you got a walking disappointment in a flowy powder blue dress and her father’s beaten up bomber jacket; beautiful, complicated and all the more tragic.

Being a hunter’s daughter is uneventful. No one in the town knew me or remember since my father decided that the recluse life is for us. So when he passed on, I was stuck with his four acquaintances who barely gave a damn that he was gone. C’est la vie and what not.

I haven’t attended mass in a long time. But when our lives’ crossed in my father’s wake, I immediately wanted to get on my knees and pray for penitence.

Only a few establishments host broken people in this countryside town. Not exactly a tourist destination, our small town near Auckland remained invisible to potential gentrifiers out there. That means we’re stuck with two options on where we can toil our life away.

We have the sad bar down the block or the sad parish up the hill. It entirely depends on what type of person are you. Although I am a heavy drinker like my daddy, the bar I frequented didn’t have the minister who piqued my interest ever since.

I devoted my Sundays to him after the wake—despite my sacrilegious thoughts.

Sitting in the back, I came to the parish as much as I can. I tried to purge every filthy, raunchy thought I had in my mind. Doing the sign of the cross every time it came up didn’t help. I tried, tried so damn hard, to focus on his gospel. But he had a physique that can turn anyone into a harlot.

Our minister’s beautiful neck, glorious beard, captivating deep brown eyes and lean built can lead the holiest person into temptation. I always sat at the back of the parish. And yet, I can feel his hotness' divinity radiating from where I sat.

The Sundays I shared with him were filled with stolen glances and small smiles dedicated to one another. Although he couldn’t remember the first time we met, his eyes always searched for mine before he could start his homilies. He wasn’t the best minister—but he still had the best intentions.

I became aware of his well-meaning intentions for his parishioners during another wake.

One gloomy Wednesday afternoon, I decided to go down the parish to catch him alone. My agenda was to finally strike up a conversation with him. Although, I’m not sure I can talk to someone without sharing a smoke. This might be more difficult than I thought.

A seemingly empty chapel was what I pictured in my head. So of course, witnessing a wake for a family I barely knew wasn’t what I expected. The situation dawned on me when I saw my father’s old hunting buddy Hector and his newly adopted child sitting on the front.

Putting two and two together, I figured the sweetest woman in the village was gone. Bella, the closest one I had to an auntie, was dead. I didn’t have the strength to go inside and mourn in solidarity. So I did what any coward would do, sit way at the back and keep to myself.

“He’s tricky like that, Jesus. So let us pray, to Jesus, please, and make it a bit easier to get through those doors, uh, to find you and your bounty of delicious confectionary,” I watch him struggle with his homily once again. Lifting his gaze away from his bible, he looked at the mourners inside his parish for 20 seconds straight.

I witnessed him suppress the smile forming on his face. Seeing his not-so-subtle attempt to make his constituents uncomfortable, I crossed my arms and rolled my eyes over his ill-timed childishness. I only dropped my arms when I caught him staring back at me.

Not to toot my own horn, but I think I just knocked some sense into him.

He cleared his throat right after his little stint. “Thank you. Thank you,” he whipped his head to address the parish’s organist. “Selena, take it away.” The sound of Selena playing “The Old Rugged Cross” left the grief-stricken parish a bit pathetic. While it played, I witnessed him bop his head along to the music as if it was a Top 40 radio hit. I’m not sure if he’s mocking his flock again or he genuinely liked the hymn.

While he subconsciously jammed to the hymn, the whole parish bore witness to Hector storming out of the place. I kept my gaze low when I heard the door slam shut. As someone who went through a similar incident, I knew what it was like to be inconsolable.

Bella meant a lot to me too. A part of me wanted to walk out with him, maybe share a cancer stick and grieve her together along with their new son.

But I don’t want to burden him with my mediocrity. So like a decent person, I sat there and stayed put. I lifted my gaze from the floor only to meet his once again. At that moment, I swore our hearts swole with the same emotions.

The feelings I thought were long forgotten were back. Say hello, helplessness and shame.

I tried to look for Hector after the sermon. Searching the grassy knolls for any figure similar to his became impossible after an hour. While the mourners left to process their grief at home, I remained around the parish grounds in an attempt to do my one good deed for the day.

When I couldn’t find Hector, I did what I always do when defeated. Suffer in silence and smoke my feelings away.

I didn’t want to piss off God more than I already have. So instead of smoking out the front of the parish, I decided to do it at the back like a decent person. God knew I am capable of shame and at least act like I am trying to change.

This decent plan was eventually ruined by my chaotic absentmindedness.

With the excitement of finally getting to talk to him flooding me, I forgot an essential item as a practicing chainsmoker—my lighter. I mentally cursed myself out while walking to the back of the parish. Suddenly, I started seeing puffs of smoke in the air.

To my surprise, the puffs came from the man I wanted to devote my entire day to.

He was drowning in his thoughts when I arrived. It was so bad, he didn’t even realize I’ve been standing there in shock for a good five minutes. I didn’t know that ministers were allowed to take in vices. It was like witnessing a unicorn out in the wild.

Wanting to be bold, I decided to save him from himself. Maybe this was my good deed for the day all along.

“Got a light, father?”

I broke his transfixed gaze upon the sky, so he can take me in instead. He eyed me from top to bottom for a good amount of time. If my eyes didn’t betray me, I’m pretty sure he bit his lip at one point. What followed right after was a nod and soft smile.

We smoked in silence and leaned on the wooden-paneled walls together. Nicotine smoke and curiosity surrounded both of us. He didn’t say anything, so I kept my slience too.

Maybe there was nothing between us and we just wanted to amuse ourselves on Sundays.

I didn’t want to waste my time on a dull man of God, no matter how devilishly handsome he was. That’s when it dawned on me that there was nothing there. So I did what any sane person would do, drop their cigarette on the dewy grass, stomp on it and walk away for good.

“So, do you come here—“

I heard him ask after I took a few steps forward. Not wanting to indulge him, I didn't stop my tracks. I clicked my heels and kept walking. With a scoff, he told me the sexiest thing a devilishly handsome minister would only say: “Fuck you, then.”  
  
My head whipped towards his direction. In one day, I saw a man of God smoke in public and swore out loud without spontaneously combusting. My brows furrowed automatically as I glared at him.  
  
Should be offended? Should I call the Vatican?

He offered no explanation whatsoever. Just a smile, waiting and hoping for me to come around again. It took me a while to process that I witnessed a Christian taboo.   
  
When it slowly dawned me, my glare turned into a beaming smile before leaving him standing by his parish. That was all the confirmation I needed.

 _Fuck_. I might make him break his vows before he breaks my heart.


	3. Part III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If a parishioner you fancy started haunting your dreams, how can you absolve yourself? Probably not by chatting them up after Sunday Mass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wet dreams, fapping and some good banter.

She found a way to seep into my dreams last night.

_ “Do you like it when I’m on my knees, father?” she asked me in her sultriest tone. With no nervous tension found in my body, I gave her the affirmation she looked for. I stroked her cheek with my index finger.  _

_ “What are your sins, my child?” I murmured. My calloused finger roughened from decades of hard labor trailed down from her cheek to her chin. With one lift, I demanded her glassy gaze to meet mine. I lovingly stroked her plush rosy lips with my thumb.  _

_ Her glassy gaze shifted to something devilish, something purely mischievous. She parted her lips to poke her tongue out. Little by little, she licked my thumb from its base to its pads, before taking it in her mouth.  _

_ I loved how meek she gets for me, how she released her inhibitions for me willingly, how she can get soaking wet just by the sight of me.  _

_ She left my thumb glossy from her drool. With the curl of her lips, she confessed: “It’s you.” _

Waking up with cold sweats forming on my forehead wasn’t my usual morning. Ever since the day we formally met, it slowly became my new normal. I wiped my face with one swipe of my hand. Letting out an exasperated sigh, I knew that I was officially awake, much to my dismay. 

Mornings like these have been happening way too often. I hate waking up with labored breathing and unconsolable morning wood. Since she came into my life, labored breathing was the only thing keeping me at bay.

That, and treating my morning wood with a good wank. 

I crawled back under my covers almost immediately. Hiding my lust-filled eyes with my left forearm, I let my right hand trail down my trousers. My hand started to tremble as I teased the bulge peaking through it. 

Rhythm was everything when it came to pleasure. I might be a God’s soldier on Earth, but I didn’t enter the seminary a virgin. I knew my way around quite well. And if I missed anything about civilian life, it’s the freedom to fuck as I please.

I started with slow, uncertain strokes, trailing from my balls to my shaft peaking with precum. Once I got the hang of it, I didn’t think twice about putting my hand underneath my trousers and letting my hand go to work. Thank my recurring wet dreams for my overloaded spank bank. 

Every stroke took me back to these explicit, sacrilegious dreams of her. It was every little physical feature, every little mannerism she exhibited. Just thinking about her soft smile made my mouth run dry and the shame in my body shut down.

“Argh, fuck,” I cursed under my breath as I went faster. Slowing down my motions, I felt morning cum leaking out of my tip. I muffled my moans in fear of waking up anyone with my lustful undisclosed desires. 

One more moan of sheer ecstasy escaped my lips. And as if on cue, the crucifix hanging on my bed fell, sliding down between the drywall and my beds metal headboard.

That’s one specific omen if I’ve ever witnessed one. 

Another week went off with those recurring mornings again. No matter how my days start with lustful thoughts, I can still walk back to my parish without bursting into flames. I guess God still favored me despite my multitude of sins. 

I made sure the rest of the Sunday service went without a hitch. After her embarrassment, nothing exciting came out of that. My congregation barely reached any epiphanies from my sermon. And of course, Selena still nailed every hymn as if the parish was her concert hall.

I really, really, really don’t get why this piano prodigy was stuck here with me.

When the closing hymn ended, I stood up and started walking towards the podium to face my flock. I looked into the crowd to acknowledge them before reading the notices. 

The subject of my dreams stood at the back without knowing what she’d done to me.

“Please be seated,” I acknowledged them all with a small nod.   
“And also with you,” her voice broke out of nowhere. 

She had the parish eating out of her palm with her slip up. Although I promised myself to not pay her any mind during the service, she broke my focus just like that. Effortless—completely and utterly effortless. 

My small smile grew wider as I failed to deflect her charm. Keeping my head low, I tried my best to keep my focus on doing my task. I only ended up chuckling to myself. 

“Uhm,” I started to flubber. At that moment, I knew I was fucked. 

I found myself staring back at her. Noticing my nerves were at play, she gave me a warm smile of encouragement. I took it and decided to soldier on. Fucking hell, I’m acting like a pre-pubescent altar boy. 

“Sorry, uhh.. yes. Today’s….” I leaned down as I tried to read the notices right in front of me. This is just fucking fantastic. Why couldn’t have God smitten me after my first wank?

“Okay, today’s notices,” I rubbed my hands together. After getting my bearings, I stood upright and started motioning my hands. “Ah yes, there’s a raffle tomorrow to raise funds for…” I started blubbering again. “God, sorry.”

She must’ve enjoyed every bit of my nervous breakdown on display. 

Feeling pious for ending the Lord’s day with a fuck up, I stood at my parish’s doorway to greet my congregation of seven. I gave the most sincere blessings that I could muster up at a moment’s notice. It’s the least I could do from ruining these good people’s Sundays.

As my last parishioner went out of the doorway, I heard footsteps coming from heavy combat boots coming my way. 

“Hello, father,” she greeted me with that ever so familiar sly smile. Wearing a frumpy old gray frock and a beaten bomber jacket shouldn’t be a cause of alarm. Still, my senses went haywire just by being near her. 

“Hey, yourself,” I mustered up an awkward wave and much more awkward smile. I used to have so much charisma. God, what has that seminary done to me? 

“So uhh,” I shrugged. “You came here to rat me out?” 

I decided to address the elephant in the room. Surely, she must’ve been alarmed seeing a pious man in robes smoke up a storm. I was so sure the whole parish knew. I guess she was the last innocent woman in the house of God. 

But if my dreams rendered to be prophetic, we both knew that wasn’t true. 

“Well, I can’t say I haven’t thought about it,” she folded her arms across her chest. “But what’s secret between potential friends?” Quirking a brow, I decided to push our seemingly playful banter a little bit further. 

“Who says we’re friends?” I bounced back her question. Pursing her lips, she took a few steps forward to seize me up. “I thought we’re all connected through Him,” she pointed up the ceiling in jest. 

“I thought you didn’t believe in God.”  
“What makes you say that?”  
“Saying ‘and also with you’ before announcements was a dead giveaway.”

“Okay, you got me there,” she let out a hearty chuckle. Fuck, she’s beautiful and capable of humor. Satan was really pegging me from behind on this one. 

Leaning on the doorway, I gave her a wide smile—a genuine one. “We haven’t even introduced ourselves to one another. What makes us friends?” I questioned her forwardness. Nodding her head in agreement, she wavered her gaze away from me to calculate her next move. 

Her apparent next move was to extend her hand. Playing her game, I abided and gave it a firm shake. Her childish antics brought out this light in me I thought that had died out.

“Hello, father. Thank you for the sermon.”  
“Thank you. I didn’t know someone still bothered to listen.”

I knew I wasn’t known for sermons that can tug anyone’s heartstrings. Well, I was better at it before compared to now. Somewhere along the way, my heart wavered and my passion for the scriptures fell flat. Maybe all it took to bring it back was for someone to be here—to actually listen.

I slowly let go of her hand after realizing I’ve been holding onto it for two minutes. Letting out another soft chuckle, she tucked a piece of stray hair behind her ear. She barely wore any makeup. I wondered why she glowed the way she did. 

“See you next Sunday,” I decided to end this lovely moment there. We started going our separate ways. I walked back inside, while she went back to wherever town haunt she frequented. 

“Uhm,” I turned around and called her attention. Luckily, she was barely out the door. “If you ever need someone to talk to, I’ll be right here,” I gave her a sincere goodbye. “I’m always here." 

Her brows didn’t furrow like when we first met. Instead, she returned my smile and gave me a small wave before walking off. I decided to stay put and watched her until she was out of my periphery.  No spontaneous combustion occurred nor did the cross behind me fall with a thud.   
  
Maybe, just maybe, I’m finally doing something right.


	4. Part IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sharing a cigarette wasn't their first meeting. All this time, she thought he had forgotten the original funeral that bonded them together. It turns out he never did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was based on one of the first scenes the Hot Priest and Fleabag shared. It's one of my favorites, so I hope I gave it some justice. The song he sang was "Gospel" by The National. Fitting isn't it?

Religion was always lost on me.

I was raised to be a fighter by my father. Growing up, he didn’t want me to depend on anything or anyone, including God’s grace. His pent up rage, unshakeable smoking habit, blatant atheism, unbearable stoicism, and independent spirit were his only inheritance for me—not including his beaten up bomber jacket and the family’s Winchester shotgun. 

My father wanted to live vicariously through me, so he raised me to be the next Annie Oakley. He probably didn’t predict I would grow up to be a pacifist. 

Stop it was our family motto whenever our emotions bubble up inside of us. When I was seven, he took me hunting for the first time. I’m my father’s child, but I’m also a child of nature. Growing up in the countryside does that for you. When his bullet took the life of an innocent rabbit, I cried on the spot. I cried for days. I cried for weeks. 

But once he shouted at me to stop. I took that to heart and I never cried in front of him again. Until he passed on, I planned to never let him see my cry. This was my game plan during his wake.

Well, that was until the minister did the Responsorial Psalms.

“Gracious is the Lord and just; yes, our God is merciful. The Lord keeps the little ones; I was brought low, and he saved me. Response…” he asked of the few of us who mourned my father’s passing. “I will walk in the presence of the Lord in the land of the living,” I uttered as I felt my heart broke for the first time in a long time. 

I kept my gaze low, so no one could see me break. Tears started falling from my cheeks then the wooden pavement we all stood on. “I believed, even when I said, ‘I am greatly afflicted,’ I said in my alarm, ‘No man is dependable.’ Response…” I heard him trail off. Confused on what happened to his vigor, I lifted my gaze to check on him.

We hear the whole parish said their response. Once I lifted my gaze, I saw him with mouth agape staring right back at me. There were never words exchanged between us. But it’s his eyes filled with sorrow and empathy that comforted me. 

For once in my life, I never felt so seen until he came along.

We never acknowledged each other’s presence after that short exchange. At the funeral, we were the only ones who bothered to stay until my father was buried. He had no comforting words for me until the last soil dropped on my father’s grave. Once it was done, he left me with a firm grip on my shoulder before walking away. 

The slightest form of a stranger’s warmth urged me to look for scraps. Although I could find warmth by emptying a bottle of cheap whiskey or in between a stranger’s legs, nothing compared to the warmth of his hand resting on my shoulder. It was his touch that kept me at bay. 

That’s why I traded the local pub for the parish in hopes we’ll cross paths again. Every Sunday, I kept my atheism at bay just to catch a glimpse of him and listen to him utter the sacred word. His best service for me was still my father’s funeral. After that, he sounded so lost every time he delivers his sermons.

I wondered if what kept me awake at night bothered him too. 

“If you ever need someone to talk to, I’ll be right here,” he gave me a sincere goodbye before I left his parish. “I’m always here.” These were the words he left me with before sending me off my way. 

I’m unsure if it was Catholic guilt urging him to open his doors for me. After all, I caught him indulging himself with vices behind his parish. I even heard him drop a multitude of f-bombs. God himself will blush if he knew what his soldier does on his off days—I know I did. 

Catholic guilt or not, I still wanted to take him up on his offer. I’m tired of seeing him only on Sundays and funerals. We are friends now, even if I sort of forced him into it. So why not make it official by dropping by on a Monday?

Going to the parish on an off day was morose, to say the least. It wasn’t like the Vatican where devout Catholics came in droves. It was just a humble, old parish in the middle of nowhere. Still, it caught me by surprise on how empty the parish was.

“Hello?” my voice echoed from its walls. I started walking towards the altar, hoping that someone was inside apart from myself and the Holy Spirit. The minister was nowhere to be seen and so was his right hand Selena who helped him with everything. I swore under my breath to air out my disappointments. 

I turn my combat boots away from the altar. As I walked away untouched and uncomforted, I wallowed on his promise that he was always there. Maybe even God’s men lived to disappoint. I was almost out the door until I heard another voice heed my query. 

“You know,” I heard footsteps coming towards my direction. “It’s awfully rude to swear in front of Him.” I turned around and there he was just like he promised. It was unusual to see him without his robe on. All he had on was his clerical polo and its white tag. Stopping his steps until he penetrated my personal space, he greeted me with a warm smile.

“Hello, father.”   
“You're here.”

We exchanged smiles for a good minute. After that, it was just sort of awkward. I really didn’t have a game plan for this. I didn’t know I’ll get this far in the first place. 

“So uhm, good to know you’re always here,” I awkwardly pointed out. “Yeah well, men of God don’t usually hang out in parks or pubs,” he shrugged followed by a chuckle. “Though, I’d be lying if I didn’t want to get hammered right now.” 

“It’s 3 p.m.,” my brows furrowed. “Well, it’s happy hour somewhere in this wretched planet,” he responded, his smile unwavering. “You’re really not a positive person for a holy man,” I pointed out, resting my hands on my hips. “Just a man full of surprises, I suppose,” he started scratching the back of his neck.

We let our banter out in the open for a few seconds. Breaking the comfortable silence between us, he clasped his hands and rubbed it together. “What are your thoughts on cheap whiskey?”

“I…”  
“I will if you will.”

We only see each other on Sundays. After that one fateful Monday, we saw one another more often than we should. 

His quarters were messy as his glorious, unkempt beard. It was filled with religious artifacts, multitudes of readings, and weirdly a stuffed cow. It was no surprise that he had the Bible on his desk at all times. What was quite surprising was the rather erotic painting of Jesus and Mary Magdalene. 

As I sat behind his desk with my eyes lingering at the painting, I silently hoped that it was an omen of greater things to come. I turned my gaze away from the rather lewd sacred display. With curious wandering eyes, it decided to land on the Bible on his desk. 

I slid the book from my direction. Once I opened it, I started scanning for anything that will pique my interest. And when that didn’t happen, I did my usual weird thing and sniffed the pages. I wasn’t much of a reader—but I did love how old books smell.

“Whiskeey,” he called my attention in a sing-songy voice. I closed the Bible almost immediately and placed it back on his desk. “Yaay,” I tried to match his enthusiasm. 

He leaned down as he placed everything on the wooden surface before me. Picking up the bottle, he started pouring the lukewarm alcohol on my glass. “I don’t usually invite my parishioners to share th—“ and just like that, his small attempt on being casual failed with whiskey spilling over his desk.

“Fuckin’ hell! Fuck me! Fuck me!” he exclaimed as he fixed his mess. I gasped in response, less about the accident and more about his sharped tongue. I silently wondered if that’s what he sounded like in bed. Shaking off these indecent thoughts, I closed my eyes and pretended to be at least a somewhat decent woman, contrary to the beliefs of my father and the people I’ve slept with.

“Let me… let me just get this,” he started wiping his desk with a nearby cloth. He also used the same cloth to wipe the liquid that spilled over my lap. “It’s fine, really. It’s fine,” I assured him. 

He leaned down in front of me as he tried to fix his mistakes. I couldn’t help biting my lower lip as his one free hand rested on my knee, while the other frantically dabbed my already soaked frock. There’s no fixing it now. But if this was his penance, I’m more than happy to oblige. 

I kept my filthy thoughts to myself until he got up from his position. “Is that erm… holy?” I asked with a concerned expression on my face. With a crumpled face, he looked at me a bit distraught. “A bit… less…than it was before,” he trailed off, observing the result of the mess he just made. 

“Oh well…” he tutted. “He’ll understand. He’s an understanding fella,” he pointed above us. Motioning away, he sat on the chair adjacent from mine. He tossed the once holy cloth aside and started serving my drink with a smile before taking his. 

We clinked our glasses before drinking them simultaneously. I didn’t want him to think less of me, so I did the pious thing and only drank a sip. I wasn’t even finished with my sip and he already downed one glass. 

He probably had second thoughts for placing his alcoholism on display. So as a sign of solidarity, I drank mine ‘till I reached the bottom before placing my glass next to his. We shared a knowing smile right after. I supposed we learned something about one another after that ludicrous display.

“So you’re a cool priest are you?” I decided to connect the dots in front of him. “Pfft, a cool priest?” he bounced back my question with a smirk. I chuckled and confirmed my query with a nod. “No, I’m a big reader with no friends. Are you a cool person?”

“Fuck no. I’m a recluse with a crippling fear of emotions,” I planted my elbow on his desk, resting my cheek on my fist. What? He wasn’t the only one capable of dark humor. He raised his brow at me, but his smirk stayed on. “No, I’m… a pretty normal person actually.”

“A normal person? What makes you a normal person?  
“Well, I don’t believe in God—“

On cue, the lewd painting of Jesus fell on the floor. I turned my head around and stared in shock. When we returned our gaze to one another, he was the only one who laughed. “Ahh, classic,” he shook his head. “I love it when He does that.” 

I kept to myself after that. If that’s not an omen, I don’t know what was. 

Avoiding stewing in the growing silence between us, he leaned to my level. “You were… in my prayers last night,” he hesitated to admit at first. “Uhm,” he scratched the back of his neck, “Every night since your father’s passing…actually.” 

My eyes lit up when I learned he remembered who I was. Although he didn’t comfort me throughout the funeral, I guess he carried the burden I carried in silence. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said pouring every sincerity in his body. All I can say were my thanks. 

I haven’t thought of my father’s passing in the longest time. The only difference was I’m not crying about it anymore. 

No more tears came from my eyes after he was gone. There were only questions left unanswered and personal regrets that wouldn’t have retribution. “Is your mother all right?” he pressed me on for answers. I shook my head in response, “I never saw her since I left her vagina rent-free.”

He nodded as he came into terms with my situation. “I understand,” he said quietly. “The funeral liturgy says that life is changed, not ended.” I stared at him as his laidback demeanor faded, reminding me of who he was and what he stood for. 

“I always loved that, if that’s of any help,” he motioned his hand to strengthen his point. It was a huge help. It was poignant yet realistic. Sure enough, it’s easier to follow than uttering five Hail Marys or whatever it is that a priest actually does. 

I thanked him with a smile. He gave me another in exchange. 

“Sorry father, but I really am an atheist,” I shook my head, rejecting his invitation to join his flock. I’m not sure if that was his intention. Still, you can’t be too careful. “Yeah, I gathered that by the smelling of the Bible.” 

We shared a burst of hearty laughter on our differences of faith. As I turned my head away, I heard him pouring another glass then downing it straight after. I kept my gaze on his desk filled with artifacts and knick-knacks. Then out of the blue, an open beaten down notebook caught my attention.

“New sermon?” I asked as I grabbed the notebook. In a moment’s notice, he swiped it off my hands almost immediately. “Oh, no, no, no, no. That’s…” he clutched at it before I had the chance to read it. 

I gave him a sly smile over his paranoia. What was he hiding? What other secrets does he have? “I… uhh… I… used to..” he trailed off. I leaned forward, wanting to hear what words would come out next. “I used to be in a band.” 

I stared at him for a couple of seconds. “I’m sorry, come again?” I asked him to repeat his statement. Yes, I heard him loud and clear. I just wanted a confirmation. “Clearly, not anymore. But… I still can’t help writing songs,” he laughed awkwardly as I see his face turning redder and redder every second. 

“I just finished the last one. I just came up with a really good title,” he kept rambling to hide his nerves. “Can I hear some of it?” I pressed on, absolutely curious about what his singing voice sounded like. 

He hesitated almost immediately. Shaking his head, he wasn’t drunk enough to share something so intimate with me. I did what any curious person would do and eased his worries. “Don’t worry. As long as it’s not ‘Wonderwall,’ I’m fine,” I joked. 

He pursed his lips before giving me a soft smile. Clearing his throat, he looked down on his notebook and prepared himself for an impromptu performance. I watched his eyes scan every line that he wrote.

“It’s… it’s not cool okay, it’s sad—“ 

“Well, we’re sad too, so….”

_ Let me come over, I can waste your time, I'm bored _

_ Invite me to the war, every night of the summer _

_ And we'll play G.I. blood, G.I. blood _

_ We'll stand by the pool, we'll throw out our golden arms _

His funeral liturgy didn’t compare to his vocal stylings. Through his low baritone, he delivered me from the shadows and suddenly there’s a light inside of me I can’t explain. He sang it with such poignancy and sincerity. It almost moved me to tears. 

_ Darlin', can you tie my string? _

_ Killers are callin' on me _

He clutched on his notebook right after. Shooting a nervous grin, I delivered the same grin back. I wasn’t nervous ‘cause I thought the song was terrible. I was nervous about a widely different reason.

This confirms my lingering suspicion—Oh God, I fancy a priest. 

I lied on my bedirreconcilable from my sudden sacrilegious epiphany. When I close my eyes, all I can feel was his grasp on my lap hours earlier. I slithered my hand down my already soaked underwear. Underneath it was my cunt, aching for the touch of his long, firm yet calloused fingers. 

Trailing down from my mound to my clit, my imagination started to run wild. I loathe, loathe, loathe pickup lines entirely. But if I have to choose one, I would pick “you were in my prayers last night” as a sure winner.

_ I pictured myself leaning on the altar table palms down. Feeling his hardness on my bare ass, he mounted me from behind. He started by nibbling on my ear then kissing it right after. Trailing his kisses from my ear to my neck, he started sucking on my skin, causing me to gasp loudly.  _

_ He covered my hand immediately. “Shh, you don’t want the whole town to know now. Would you?” he murmured. I shook my head in response. “Good girl,” he whispered in my ear before lifting my frock, so his fingers can trail down the wetness forming on my cunt.  _

_ “Stand still,” he murmured as he cradled his head on my nape. “I want to make you feel good,” he assured me as he traced down my wetness from my clit down to my hole. Once he got to where he wanted to go, he took off his hand on my cunt, only to trace my lips with my juices.  _

_ Once it cycled around my lips, he parted it with his fingers. I obliged by opening my mouth to let him shove his fingers in. I lapped my juices around his index and middle finger. Eventually, he pulled it out. He watched his fingers glistening with my saliva and fluids.  _

_ Smirking at the sight of it, he immediately placed it back down and shoved it inside of me without warning. I mewled at the sensation of him inside of me. He pumped it in and out slowly, before picking up the pace that left me glassy-eyed and mewling.  _

I imagined his rhythm and mimicked it with my hand. I began to think of his features; his strong arms, his beautiful neck, his warm brown eyes, and his glorious beard. I imagined it was for me—he was all for me. 

With one long, aching moan, I began to cum all over my fingers until it started dripping down my sheets. I pumped my fingers in a couple of more times before deciding I was satisfied. Wiping my fingers on my futon, I rolled to the other side of my bed and slowly closed my eyes. 

Religion was always lost on me. I never believed in anyone, but myself. 

He might just change all of that. 


	5. Part V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the minister was a child, he spoke like a child, he thought like a child, he reasoned like a child. When he became a man, he put aside childish things. It only took one night for him to realize that was completely bullshit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you like Catholic guilt, sexual tension, and oral.

Accepting changes in my life was always an uphill battle. 

No one would associate me with the priesthood 15 years ago. A decade and a half back, I didn’t have the Gospel on my side nor my mind. I was a frustrated creative in a small village where everyone was related to each other. I wanted to breakaway—I wanted to be bigger than this. 

Our town minister was treated the way I’m treated now; respected by some, ignored by many. I blocked out thoughts of religion and holiness throughout my coming-of-age. All I cared about was writing music, being adored by many, and kicking it back with my band. 

I was young, naive, and hungry for what life had to offer. 

Church on Sundays, Bible readings, and saying peace be with yous were never second nature to me. What was second nature to me were gigs on Saturdays, cheap booze, and voyeuristic sex (recreational drugs sold separately). I was an ambitious, below average teenage dirtbag living in a teenage wasteland of a village. 

Then life sort of just gives you a nut tap of the century. With that single kick in the existential balls, it gives you loads of pain topped with a renewed perspective. The verse in the book of Corinthians went like this: “When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put aside childish things.” 

If I can summarize my tragic coming-of-age with one verse, that one surely nailed it. 

Was it weird that I got nostalgic over this while I trimmed my beard? It probably was. It’s either a divine intervention from above, so I can reflect on my journey. That, or God wanted me to stop trimming my unkempt beard. 

I placed the electric razor by the sink. Observing my work in the mirror, I stroked my newly trimmed facial hair. It was far from becoming a five ‘o clock shadow, but it’s no longer near cult leader status. I smiled at myself thinking how my parishioners would react to my neatly trimmed beard. 

I wondered if she would smile at the sight of me. 

Since she came by that Monday, I never got rid of her and I was better for it. We talked about faith, existentialism, socio-political stances, and the divinity of The Velvet Underground and Nico for hours. It felt like the days I kept hidden were surfacing once again. And instead of greeting it with discontent, I welcomed it with a genuine smile on my face. 

I felt like she made my relationship with God stronger somehow. For two years now, I barely cared about my parish, my parishioners, or myself. If they didn’t care, I didn’t bother to care. 

That wasn’t due to a lack of trying on my part. If anything, I tried way too hard and exhausted myself in the process. I wanted to combine my old ideals back when I was a cynical teenage dirtbag, hungry for social justice, and my newfound learnings from the Scriptures. Jesus did it—why can’t I?

But if I learned anything, life leads to a lot of disappointments. And sometimes you have to live with all of it until you die. 

“That’s fucking bullshit,” she murmured under her breath. I told her some part of my journey while sitting by the parish’s steeple. She came by my side of town as much as she could. No longer were we exclusive on Sundays. After bonding over whiskey, all of my days belonged to her. 

She drank her beer from the can. Wiping her lips with her bomber jacket’s sleeve, she shot me a look of incredulousness. “What? Too cynical?” I jested. I waited for her nugget of street smart wisdom while my one arm rested on my guitar’s body. 

Lately, I felt like I was becoming like my old self; hungry for change yet cynical about the present, always pondering with alcohol and music by my side. I blame her for all of this. Still, it wasn’t like I hated it. 

“If your parish truly doesn’t give a fuck, what’s stopping you from pushing your anarchistic Christian gospel?” she explained to me, waving her hands around the air to emphasize her point. “The Vatican comes to mind.” I smiled at her crass optimism. “They don’t give a shit now that you’re giving dull as fuck sermons,” she grumbled. 

“They won’t give a fuck when you push progressive ideals. It’ll be a miracle if they bat an eye,” I watched her down her alcohol then crush the can by hand. “I mean… I don’t know,” she sighed, exasperated by the fire in her belly. “It might actually make the town interesting. Maybe even better.”

She wistfully gazed at the green pastures before us. As much as I love her watch spewing hell fury, I loved watching her in perfect stillness more. She eventually turned her head to face me for my rebuttal. In response, I played the first chords of The Clash’s “Straight to Hell.” 

Being loyal to no one but herself, she giggle-snorted and slapped my arm. “You’re an absolute dickhead,” she shook her head. “That’s why I need His guidance,” I pointed at the blue sky above us. 

“To cure dickery?”  
“To cure my dickery.”

We both gazed upwards at the sky. Not a moment too soon, I found myself drifting my eyes away from the Divine to stare at her in stillness once more. There’s something about her I can’t quite place. I want to guide her, protect her, hold her. 

The last thought was the only one I hope not to be true. 

“I take that as my cue to leave,” she said her goodbyes softly. Getting up from the parish steps, she shot me a smile and a polite wave. “Fight the power, Father,” she winked while giving me a resistance fist pump. I chuckled at her cheekiness as she started walking away. 

That’s when it hit me that I’ve forgotten the personalized Bible I kept hidden by my side. I immediately dropped my guitar, grabbed the copy, and ran after her. “Hey,” I called her attention, hoping she’d hear me. “Yes, Father?” she stopped and turned to my direction.

“I hope you don’t mind, but…” I stared at my feet, having second thoughts on doing this. “I’ve marked a few pages in here that I thought might be—“ My verbal vomit was met with her expected hesitation. “Look, I—“ she chuckled nervously. 

“No, no, no, no, no,” I started chuckling with her. “I’m not trying to…” I started waving her copy of the Bible around. “They’re just words,” I shrugged as I handed it out to her. “It’s just that… we all know what happens right?” she started moving towards me. 

Letting her come to me, I offered her a soft smile. “Classic,” I nodded my head as my grip on the Bible grew tighter. I looked down at it and decided to give it another shot. “Come on—” I met her gaze once more. “—Have a read.” 

I extended her copy to hers once more. Remaining hesitant, she stared at it for a moment before taking it anyway. “I’d really, really like to know what you think,” I laid down my personal agenda for her to see.   
“And uhh, if you want to talk about stuff…I’m here.” I started scratching the back of my neck, mustering up the courage to speak up. “With cheap whiskey or canned beer, of course.” I shot her a nervous smile as I walked backward away from her. 

“I’d like you to come, if that helps,” I said my goodbyes. As I turned away from her happy yet perplexed disposition, I kept my gaze on the ground, wishing she would turn up on my parish’s steps.   
  
Enlightened or in rage—whatever will get her to come back again.

The inspection of my newly trimmed beard was interrupted by a doorbell. Poking my head out of the bathroom door, I checked the clock outside. 9:30, it read. I sighed and headed downstairs, curious about who was on the other side of my front door.

Once I opened the door with a groggy disposition, I began to laugh at my obliviousness. It was her—always her. Who else would be at my doorstep at a late hour?

“You're late,” I crossed my arms, pretending to be disappointed. “You trimmed your beard,” she smiled in approval of it. I chuckled softly as I kept my gaze low, hoping the dim lighting would hide my reddening cheeks. “And the pub’s closed, so—“ “So dropping by my parish is the next best thing?” I raised my brow. 

“Well, you do have my favorite whiskey.”   
“What if I told you I ran out?  
“Well, you do have my favorite minister.”

The next thing I knew I was sharing a nightcap with her inside my quarters. Quietly hoping Selena didn’t hear us, I kept our laughter on the down low while drinking cheap whiskey filled with tomorrow’s regret. She shared her thoughts on why the Bible was b.s., while I agreed with some of it and dejected others. 

“It’s not fact, it’s poetry. It’s for interpretation to help us work out God’s plan for us,” I defended the Bible’s overall vagueness, like a desperate Pitchfork critic. “And what’s God’s plan for you, then?” she asked me before taking a sip of her drink. I pursed my lips while I contemplated my answer. 

“Hmm, I guess He planned for me to love others in a different way,” I drifted my gaze from her. “Supposed I was to love people, humanity, as a soldier of God. A Father and whatnot,” I grumbled. I downed my glass of whiskey, succumbing to my inevitable fate. 

When my gaze landed of hers, she had a shit-eating grin on. “We can arrange that,” she jested. “I meant a father of many,” I rolled my eyes. As I placed my glass on the coffee table, her melodic laughter rang in my ears. 

“I’ll go up to three.”  
“Not gonna happen, darling.”  
“How about two?”  
“As long as their twins.” 

Our morally dubious conversations migrated from the living room to the bench outside to not disturb Selena. With our waves of laughter echoing off the walls, it’s best not to risk anything tonight. And yet risk never left me that night.

“Do you... I dunno… regret becoming a minister?” she asked candidly. Downing my third glass of the night, I stared at her expressionless. “Now that I’m drinking with a parishioner at an ungodly hour, the answer might be yes,” I let my natural sarcasm get the best of me. She hit me playfully at my arm. 

I stared at the distance before deciding to give her a serious answer. “Of course, I have doubts,” I grumbled. “Part of the deal and whatnot.” I felt the weight of her stare on me. Another stare I felt the weight of was Him from above. 

“I can’t.”   
“Can’t what?”  
“Give up sex forever.”

I whipped my head to face her with disbelief. With a nervous grin plastered on her face, she kept her gaze low on her whiskey glass, observing its ebbs and flows as this conversation went on. “I’d take celibacy over complicated relationships any day.”

My life before God’s divine love was booze, sex, music, and of course, heartaches. Too many heartaches to count. So many, I can’t share it all in one sitting. 

“Celibacy’s more bearable, I’d give you that,” I said under my breath. “What if you meet someone you like?” she asked me in her softest tone. She met my gaze once she dropped her question. Averting my gaze from her, I answered as honestly as I could.

“I dunno. I guess…” I swallowed hard while stringing my thoughts together. Drunken state, be damned. “I chat ‘em up, offer ‘em cheap whiskey, give ‘em personalized Bibles—“ I returned my gaze to hers once more. “—and hopefully, they’ll give me my old life back.”

She didn’t meet my stare with disdain. Just a shining curiosity, eager to prod me with questions. “What if you meet someone you love?” she followed up her old, hard-hitting query with another. 

“Won’t exactly burst into flames, but my life would be fucked.”   
“D’you want to test that theory tonight, Father?”

Her eyes once filled with curiosity were now flickering with lust. Now, I would love to blame alcohol for my lowered inhibitions. But that would be a colossal lie. 

Without thinking, my thumb slowly ran down her cheek, leading it near her lips. I did it in the same way in the lust-filled dreams greeting me every morning. I wanted a sign—an omen. 

And with a flick of her tongue, my thumb resided inside of her mouth. She sucked on it slowly as her eager eyes stayed on my desperate once. Once she let go, it glistened the way it did in my subconscious. 

When I became a man, I put aside childish things… until I fucked it all up.

The next thing I knew we were inside my quarters. I got her wrists pinned down on my drywall, kissing each other hungrily. I discovered biting her lower lip made her mewl in an instant. With a drunken mind curious on what other glorious sounds she was capable of, I pressed on without thinking of tomorrow’s consequences.

I started by nibbling her earlobe, leaving her to gasp at my rough demeanor. I immediately kissed it after I had my fun. As my lips trailed down from her ear to her nape, I felt the same way when I held a guitar on my hand for the first time.

I wanted to know the sounds she was capable of, the way she can be operated, the right touch that can make her mine. 

Sucking off the skin of her nape, I wanted badly to mark her. It’s been a while since I had a selfless thought in my system. This was all way too crass, way too selfish—so why did she feel so divine under my touch?

My hand clasped her wrists together on the wall. “I won’t be bursting into flames,” I gasped. “But I am curious if I can make you burst instead.” We exchanged wicked grins before committing each other’s undoing. 

I began caressing her breast with my free hand, while I kissed her with roughness and neediness. I let her moan into my mouth as my fingers played with her nipple through her frock’s cloth. It hardened almost immediately with goosebumps and head flooding from her body. 

Sucking on her tongue, I began to seek what her real juices tasted like. 

We pulled away from each other to gather oxygen. Gasping for breaths, I leaned my forehead onto hers. We were both flustered with alcohol and excitement. All that’s left to figure out was what the mixture of those lead to. 

Not wanting to waste time, I cradled her head to lean on my shoulder. I grabbed her wrist and placed it behind her. “Are you a good girl for me, my child?” I whispered into her ear with a low tone. “A-always, Father,” she gasped. 

I pressed against her on the wall causing her to moan once more. Slowly, I trailed my other hand down, caressing her frame before lifting her frock. My hand trailed upward from her soft plump thighs to the wetness forming on her underwear. 

“From now on,” I traced her wetness with my index and middle finger. “Never wear this—“ I lifted the hem of her underwear. “—on my parish again.” I went down from her mound to her throbbing clit, rubbing gentle circles to tease her. 

Her soft moans rang in my ear like the most divine hymn I ever heard. Keeping her head on my shoulder with my free hand, my fingers slid down from her clit to her dripping wet cunt. I let it hovered for a moment. 

“Are you sure about this?” I asked her and she nodded on my shoulder. Taking this as a sign of consent, I started slowly pumping in and out of her. My fingers became slick with her wetness. Her muffled moans vibrated on my shoulder as I began to pick up speed. 

“So wet for me, so tight for me,” I cooed. I began to pick up the speed as her moans and mewls became more erratic. “You’re perfect, so perfect for me.”   
  
Her insides began to gush in between my fingers. The sound it made was just simply immaculate. I pumped faster and faster and faster, addicting to the sound of her wetness and folds colliding. 

It didn’t take long for her sporadic moans to evolve into a big one. Just like that, her juices flooded ran down from my fingers to her creamy thighs. I pushed my fingers inside of her one last time—wanting her to remember who made her fall apart that night.

Tugging her by the hair, I lifted her head from my shoulders. I slid my fingers out of her dripping cunt. She stared at me with a smile filled with orgasmic bliss and flushed cheeks. Mercilessly, I traced my fingers wet from her juices on her lips. 

“What are your sins, my child?” I murmured, lost in her dumbfounded gaze. She chuckled softly at my question. Catching me off guard, she softly pressed her lips against mine. “Father…”

She slowly went down on her knees, did the sign of the cross, and kept her eyes on mine. “…it’s you.”

With one tug of my sweatpants, she let my hardened cock free. She parted her lips without averting her gaze. Her drool dripped as she opened her mouth wide to taste my aching member. 

As I felt her hot mouth wrapped around my cock, I wrapped my fist around her hair to push myself further in. I let gurgle on my cock mercilessly. I was desperate for her touch, desperate for her desire. When I closed my eyes to get a grip of myself, a flash of white light came to me. 

I never felt closer to God in my whole life.


	6. Part VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their new arrangement has some rules. Although she loves following all of them, there's one that she wanted to break so badly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They're fucking? Oh, they're fucking. Please feel free to curse me out for the hornstorm I'm about to create.

I never felt farther from God in my whole life.

Never was I compared to a good Christian lady. Although I am a woman by nature, I was never a lady. I was never raised to be one.

I am your stereotypical tomboy; frock hand-me-downs from my M.I.A. mother, beaten up bomber jackets from father, and well, the combat boots and frazzled long hair were my own personal touch. I was never raised to be a woman for God nor planned to be God’s type.

So why the fuck do I have a sexual arrangement with our local minister?

Two weeks have transpired since I literally and metaphorically fucked his life over. Since then, I felt guilt overcome me in the night’s loneliest hours. I can’t help but feel I dragged him down to my wretched, lonely life.

But that’s impossible since I’ve never met a man as lonely as him.

Men and women in my life come and go. They chat me up, get me drunk, fuck me to the best of their abilities, and leave me before the sun comes back up. He decided to not follow that script.

Stoicism became my strong suit. But with him, I smile and laugh the hardest. He never leaves my side cold and empty. Fucking was, surprisingly, secondary between us.  
  
My own flesh and blood never gave me the warmth he gives. Still, we don’t know much about one another. We’re wise enough to keep each other in the dark with our skeletons.

Hence, the rules he imposed between us.

“Child, did you take my advice?”  
  
I nodded my head to give him my confirmation. In the first Sunday service after our purely sacrilegious night together, he cornered me by the doorway when his flock left. Selina was eyeing us by the alter as she cleaned up after him.

To avoid suspicion, we feigned smiles while placing our filthiest thoughts in code. We kept a healthy distance from one another. A few winks were thrown in each other’s direction. Luckily, she barely saw these exchanges.

“You can find out for yourself if you’d like—“ I said with a sly smile forming on my face. He quirked his brow and kept his arms crossed. I let my response hang before addressing him properly. “—Father.”

Our gaze shifted to the alter in unison, just to check if Selina’s guard was down. She eventually walked away with all of the artifacts and the Bible. Once her final footsteps echoed away from the parish, he took my hand and claimed his post-mass fucking in his office.

Behind closed doors, he got me up against the wall. It’s the position he liked seeing me the most. He bit his bottom lip at the sight of me. With hungry eyes, he muttered: “Let me see.”

He leaned on his desk with arms crossed, examining me from top to bottom with his longing gaze. “What?” I said softly. “No welcome drinks?”

Slowly, he started walking towards me. Our faces were inches away from each other as he traced my lips with his. But I couldn’t even get a taste. Once he tricked me with a kiss, he placed a no longer holy cloth in my mouth.

“Don’t let the whole town hear you, okay?” He leaned and whispered to my ear. I shook my head in response. With a smirk and a soft kiss on my cheek, he began to kneel down in front of me.

He kept his gaze on mine the whole time. As he slowly lifted my frock, the wetness between my legs became more apparent. One swoop was all it took for him to know how obedient I truly was.

I never saw anyone’s eyes gleam the way his did at the sight of my bare cunt.

“Fuck me,” he muttered. His gaze went back up to mine, searching my eyes for clear answers. “You really want this,” he said in awe. Going back to his address his desires, he began to trace my juices with the calloused fingers of hard worker.  
  
I swallowed thickly as I felt his touch on mine. He slowly started from my mound then down my dripping hole, just tracing the flow of my juices. I was aching for his touch—he was aching for my taste.

“There’s really no going back now, is there?” he asked in a low tone. “Might as well get the most out of it.”

My eyes automatically shut at the sensation of his tongue pressed to my clit. Going in circular movements, he wasted no time on tasting me. He kept teasing it, and teasing it, and teasing it. Once he had his fill, he began pumping his finger inside of me, wanting me to get flooded just like our first night together.

It didn’t take long for him to test how much he can fit in me. Two fingers were his go-to. When my muffled, mewling moans haven’t satisfied him, he made it three. He picked up the pace when he got three of them in me.

Everything that turns me on about him flashed in my mind; his playful smirks, his rugged beard, his well-sculpted arms, and his beautiful neck. With every pump, all of my wet dreams played in my head like a supercut. Only difference was it melded into my reality.

“Jesus fucking Christ, you’re pretty good at this.”

Sometimes, I took him out of his parish to go to my side of town. The smell of gun smoke wafted with the cool countryside breeze. He cracked his second beer open, then started drinking right after.

We never shot animals in the woods. Only inner bullshit and discarded beer cans were harmed when we have shotguns around. I brought mine, while he brought his.

I was taken aback when I learned he had a gun himself. That’s what prompted me to break his amazement of my skills on display. “So…” I began to ask as I prepped for my next shot. “….gonna tell my our minister has a gun hanging around?”

The ring of my shot echoed throughout the woods. A flock of birds even got startled and started flying away for their safety. I lowered my gun down and turned my head to his direction. “Aren’t you supposed to be a pacifist?”

“I am.”

“So… why do you have a gun?”

“Foxes.”

“What?” My brows furrowed from his vague answer. Letting a long sigh, he downed his beer and discarded it on the field. “You won’t laugh?” he looked at me for any sign of trust. I zipped my lips with one hand and threw the metaphoric lock away.

“Uhh, so, uhm. I was raised by hunter too…” he began to scratch his neck. “And uhm, back in the day we used to hunt foxes. Mount ‘em on walls, deep fry ‘em, what have you.” The more he went on with his story, the more I saw him grow uncomfortable. It wasn’t an embarrassment, but pent up shame.

“Then one day, they started following me around,” he muttered. “Wherever I go, even outside my old town, they always find me. I just need some form of protection when they do.” He let his vague story hang in there for a moment. I watched his mind take him somewhere he didn’t want to go.

Breaking the stillness between us, I decided to crack a joke. I began walking towards him with my shotgun at hand. “Remind me what your old band was called again?” I asked with a shit-eating grin plastered on my face.  
  
With a cold dead stare, he sighed. “Portions for Foxes.”

I began to laugh at the absurd relationship he has with wild furry mongrels. Once my laughter reached his ears, he began to laugh with me. It was all friendly banter. That was until he took my rifle away, grabbed me by the waist, and whisked me away to the nearest tree.

“Ow,” I exclaimed while still in fits of giggles. He got me pinned by the tree, steadying me with his firm grasps on my thighs. “You’re cute when your happy, y’know?” he kissed me on the forehead.  
  
“Don’t infantilize me,” I rolled my eyes. He smirks and started giving me hungry kisses from my ear to my lower jaw, and then my neck. He did his usual routine by leaving his mark on my nape. As he sucked my skin, his grip on my thighs grew tighter.

“Ooh, snippy.” he smirked. “Why don’t we fix that, then?” he growled into my ear. Before another word can leave my mouth, he unwrapped the scarf around his neck. “Bite,” he commanded, so I did.

The rest of his scarf was wrapped around the tree’s body. With my legs rested on his shoulders, he began to eat me out like I was his last meal. He lapped on every drop and sucked on my clit as if it’s candy.

Sheer ecstasy began to hit every nerve in my body. My cunt started twitching on his bearded face. With an apparent one last lick, he gazed upwards at me. He wanted me to see what I made him do—his eyes flickering with lust and his beard glistening with my wetness.

It didn’t matter to him that I already came. Until he was satisfied, his face was my throne where he pleasured me as he saw fit.

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

I surprised him in confession booth days later. Even though there was a partition between us, I can feel the heat from his body rising from his cheeks, his cock hardening on the other side.

“This is my…. first confession,” I nodded. “Ever.” He already knew that I never stepped in the parish after my father’s funeral. “Go… go ahead, my child,” I heard his voice hitched upon realizing what was bound to happen.

“I began having relations with a man of God,” I said in a soft tone. “You should see him, Father. He’s devilishly handsome, great built, gorgeous brown eyes—“ I began narrating his qualities. “—and a massive, mouth-watering cock.”

My confession was halted when the curtain in front of me flew wide open. His expression was cold and unamused. When my gaze fell on his crotch, his full hard on betrayed his demeanor.

“What are you doing here?” he hissed. I merely shrugged and rolled my eyes, “Unfair for you to tie me up like that.” An exasperated sigh escaped his lips. He began to scratch the back of his neck, tapping his foot repeatedly.

“If it wasn’t me on the other sid—”

“—you’re the only minister we’ve got.”

“We’ll get caught!”

I dragged him by his collar and pulled him inside. Pinning him on the wall of the booth, I whispered: “Be quiet then, Father.” I gave him a quick kiss before going down on my knees to welcome him.

Unbuckling his belt as quietly as I can, I immediately pulled down his trousers with his boxers, springing out his hardened six-inch before me. I started by licking off the precum forming on his tip.  
  
He arched his neck and closed his eyes, trying to make sense of the immoralities we’re committing in the house of God. I slowly take his tip in my mouth. Kitten licks at first, then slowly inching my mouth to take him in.

“You’re shameless,” he caressed my cheek bulging with his cock. “Let’s prove how shameless you actually are then,” he muttered as he balled his fist on my hair. I thought I was in control this time around.

But that’s the thing with him. He was the one calling the shots.

He shoved his cock further in my mouth. Bobbing my head to his command, he began fucking my face relentlessly. My mouth was his, my throat is for his cum, and my cunt is his for eating.

My eyes began to water as I lost control over how much of him I could take. His bitterness flooded my tastebuds, his roughness flooded my cunt. “That’s my good girl,” he grunted. “Take me all in.”

Spurts of his cum started shooting in my throat. Although he's a man of cloth, he was merciless. He shoved my mouth even further once he came. I gurgled on his cock like the good girl he hoped I would be.

And for him, I was—a good woman I was never meant to be.

When his grasp on my hair loosened, I tried to muster up the strength to get up from where I knelt. He offered his hand and helped me. Once I got my bearings, I decided to push him from where I sat with my lust-filled confessions earlier.

I slowly started lifting my frock to reveal I’ve followed all of his rules. He stared in awe at the sight of my dripping cunt yet once again. At this point, he might’ve grown obsessed with it.

“Am I a good girl, Father?” I started moving closer to his direction. He sharply inhaled, “The best.” I gave him a wicked grin. The sight of his cock glistening from my drool was purely heaven sent.

I aimed to take it further, to finally get my tight cunt wrapped around his massive six inches. It was like my body was designed for him to take, please, and use as much as he wanted. But once I began to mount myself on him, his firm hands gripped me by the waist.

“I-I’m sorry,” he stuttered. “We… we can’t.” His refusal took me aback. Why stop now? The flirting, teasing, and overwhelming oral led us to this moment. Feeling embarrassed, I slapped his hand away from my hips and got down from him.

“What do you mean?” my tone shifted cold. “You have no idea how much I want this. Trust me, I do,” he began to explain himself. “We can keep doing this, but I can’t… fully… do…this.” He looked at me with saddened eyes. The same eyes that mourned with me during my father’s passing, same eyes that told me his complicated childhood with foxes.

Buckling his pants back on, he got up from where he sat. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he kissed me on the lips before leaving me alone in the booth. For minutes, I stared at the booth’s curtain, hoping he would come back.

I can follow all of his rules. But this one, I knew I had to break.


	7. Part VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You told me I’m yours,” she murmured. “Tell me everything then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I'm not sure if this is the best. We have feelings, we have smut, we have photography. It's a multi-layered chaptered folks.

She has this way of making me a better person.

The Church and God have conspired together to make me holistic. With all the vices corrupted in me and the traumas I’ve powered through, they tried their best to make me stronger, emotionally, and physically. And yet—they couldn’t match her effect on me.

It’s not because our entanglement forces me to question my faith. It’s not the companionship she willingly gives nor the blinding orgasms I get when I’m in between her thighs. If God were to ask me right now, I’ll say: “This might be the closest experience I’d ever get to love.”

And I have never been so frightened yet delighted in my entire life.

“Pick one: weddings or funerals?” I mused while walking alongside her by the block downtown. If we’re not wrapped around each other, she made me live life as a civilian. She often took me on side adventures away from my parish.

She wore her usual flowy, muted frock with her father’s bomber jacket standing out. Instead of her hair in a messy bun, she changed it up into a crown braid. I kept it simple with a white shirt under a denim on denim ensemble, replacing my priest tag with a hand-me-down bolo tie.

Last time, she took me to the countryside to shoot beer cans with her. She did me a huge favor this time around by getting my guitar fixed. “If this is your way of asking me to marry you, the answer is yes.”

Paranoia hit me when she blurted out her quip. Immediately, I placed my finger on my lips and instructed her to keep it down. But she didn’t care about what other people thought. She never did.

“You didn’t ask, but in case you want to know, mine’s funerals,” I scratched my neck. I kept my nervous gaze low to avoid possible passersby, waiting to judge what my relationship was with her. “There’s just something… humbling about ‘em.”

“Been listening to too much Leonard Cohen again, Father?” she scoffed at my answer. I shook my head, “It’s just…good to think about what happens on the other side.” I caught her smiling at my musings in my peripheral vision.

“What do you believe in? Worm food?” I rolled my eyes from her questioning my belief. She shook her head and shrug in response. “Why?” I exclaimed. “Why what?” she chuckled.

“Why believe in something awful when you could believe in something wonderful?!” I hollered, my emotions getting the best of me. She shut me up by playfully punching my arm. “Please, don’t make me an optimist. My brand would get ruined.”

We both shared a laugh at the thought of her turning into an optimist. Once I got my bearings, I found myself glancing over her. She glanced back at me with a beaming smile to greet me with.

“Well…a funeral did bring us together—“

“—And look where we are now.”

In love with each other and at war with ourselves.

One time, she caught me by surprise at the confession booth. Every inch of me wanted to touch her, wanted to be one with her. But I knew I would lose everything if I acted upon it.

She’s salvation and downfall in a hand-me-down dress. Since I abandoned my personal dreams, my life was at a standstill. Mornings only made me happy again when I knew it meant seeing her once more.

The scriptures prepared me for everything except her. 

“Smile.”  
“No.”

We went back to my quarters after getting the neck of my guitar brand new again. Every time we spent together, we learn something new about one another. It’s never gradual. Always by surprise.

The surprise this week was her penchant for photography.

I took the last puff of my cigarette before stomping its embers out. “I haven’t done this in a while,” she whined, still trying to coerce me. “And I really think polaroids might be my medium.”

My brow rose as she beamed with her old Polaroid camera at hand. I never saw her this excited, this childish. I kept my ground by keeping my arms folded on my chest.

“And you look good without your churchy clothes!” I shook my head, still not caving into her request. I watched her struggle coming up with points to convince me. With one huge sigh, she grimaced: “Would God stop me from following my dream—“

“One photo.”  
“Two.”  
“That’s all you get.”

She clapped her hands in excitement. I groaned and prepared my eyes for the blinding flash. I despise getting my photo taken. Loathe it with all of my being.

But Jesus fucking Christ, she really has a hold on me.

“Do I need to smile?” I grumbled. She shook her head, her response caught me off guard. “Just be you,” she peeped through the viewfinder with one eye and hovered her finger over the shutter.   
  
I didn’t know what being me meant. Still, I held two poses for her and powered through it. One flash came after another. Just like that, I gave her mementos to remember me by.

“You’re lucky I like you,” I kissed her cheek as I walked past her. She studied the photographs she took of me. Whether she’s impressed by her own work or grimacing why she slept with a destitute minister in his 40s, I’m not sure yet.

I leaned down my bedside table to get something that can appease my suspicions. It contained most of my skeletons. When I got back to her, I gave her my old photo album without any explanation.

“I’ll get us a stiff drink,” I grumbled. “God knows I need one.” If she’s tearing her walls down for me, I might as well return the favor.

“Wow,” she exclaimed while keeping her face expressionless.   
  
I stood behind my quarter’s door, ready to bolt out in case she didn’t like what she saw in my worn down photo album. “What? Didn’t live to your expectations?” I let out a chuckle, hiding my nervousness.

Ever since we met, we never got ourselves out of each other’s space. My past is a chapter in my life that I kept close for others. But she made it clear in the beginning that she will always be an exception.

With a glass of cheap whiskey at hand, I nursed my nerves down while I watch her flip through my old photographs on my bed. That book contains all the memories I cherished yet despised. As she studied my past in awe, I felt the bolo tie around my neck constrict my throat.

“I just…”  
“Just what?”  
“I didn’t expect you to be fuckable and cool.”

She lifted the album and pointed at a picture of me during my grunge days with an electric guitar. “What the hell happened?” she chuckled. I pressed my hands together and looked wistfully up at Him, “A higher calling.”

Before I knew it, my face was smacked by a soft pillow.

“That’s for depriving me of my groupie dreams,” she huffed. The album was once again placed on her lap for her to gaze upon. “Hmm… you would’ve preferred that, wouldn’t ya?” I mumbled as I bent down to grab the pillow I was assaulted with.

“Clearly,” she rolled her eyes. I smiled at the sight of her usual snark at display. “What would’ve you done, then?” I challenged her passing thought. As I got up, I started walking towards where she sat.

“Done, if what?”  
“If I stayed a rock god while you’re my groupie…”  
“Bold of you to assume you’re a rock god.”

She glanced up when my shadow began hovering over the album. With one hand, I closed the album and reached for her hand. “I was a different person,” i muttered. “You didn’t know me then.” 

Placing my glass next to hers on my bedside table, I got down on my knees and quietly asked her: “Do you know what I used to do to girls like you back then?” I watched her swallow thickly as she shook her head. God, seeing her turn from crass to docile made my cock twitch in mere seconds.

“Bet your pussy can’t handle what I did to pretty girls like you,” I noticed my tone grew dark. Craving for her supple kisses, I rolled my thumb rolled over her bottom lip, watching it gleam with one stroke. “Knew just the trick to keep them quiet.”

I gave her a soft kiss before getting up from where I knelt. As she kept her gaze on mine, I knew I was done hesitating and playing games. This was what came to do anyways.

Once I unbuckled my belt, she bit the zipper of my jeans and lowered it down unprompted. Her tongue started tracing my bulging cock through the cloth of my boxers. When my breath began to hitch from her touch, I yanked her by the hair to stop.

“Patience,” I hissed. “You’re not getting what you want so easily.”

My quarters began to fill with her muffled moans. The wonders of nature will always be amazing, but nothing compared to the sight of her mouth stuffed to the brim with my cock. Her warmth and willingness never failed to awaken something in me, something so primal.

“Take me all in, babe,” I grunted. “Such a good girl… my girl…all mine,” I fucked her pretty mouth with full force. My cock rammed down her throat and she took it all in. Even if it made her choke and teary-eyed, she only stared at me with longing, loving every thrust regardless of my speed.

It didn’t take long for my load to shoot up her throat. With bleary eyes, she looked at me with a glassy gaze. I tried to pull my cock out to put her at ease. But once I inched away from her, she grabbed me by the hips and pushed it back in.

She drank my cum as if it was the Blood of Christ. In return, I ate her cunt and made it my daily bread.

We lay on my bed in a matter of minutes. Our clothes were left to lay on the wooden floor, while I got her on top of me upside down. I shoved my tongue inside of her without any remorse for her pleas. As revenge, while I ate her out, she tried to get her throat coated with my load once again.

Her juices and my drool glistened on my beard. To satiate my addiction to her taste, I kept licking and fucking her with my tongue. Her muffled moans and soft mewls rung in my ears.

Not wanting to let anyone hear a peep of her pleasure, I pulled my face away from her cunt and smacked her cheeks. “Are you gonna be good for me?” I said my threat with a growl.

She paused for a moment and quietly nodded. Once I got her confirmation, I held her ass cheeks and made her cunt bounce on my tongue. Her breath hitched as I picked up the pace.

My tongue did what my cock only dreamt of. With every ounce of frustration I have of filling her hot dripping cunt with my six inch, I shoved my tongue in her as fast and as hard as I can. Oxygen wasn’t my priority—all I wanted was to make her squirt.

“F-fuck,” she cursed me out under her breath. I didn’t care for her cries and pleas. As I picked up the pace, so did she. She started jerking my cock while she licked and sucked the head.

Her willingness not only made me growl, but it also made me petty. That’s when I knew I had to pull out an old move of mine. So to trick her, I stopped and pulled my face away from her cunt.

I watched her pussy throb from neediness. She was aching for me to get her off. Not wanting to disappoint her, I doused three fingers with my drool and shoved it back in, fucking her senselessly with my digits.

“God, oh fuck!” I heard her exclaim. Not caring for whoever heard us, I began sucking on her clit as I pumped my fingers inside of her. She tried to keep her moans and mewls on check—too bad she was failing.

Once I felt her clench around my digits, she squirted all of her juices on me. I came in her mouth in mere seconds. I didn’t care for the mess we had created. Lapping her up, I all cared about was tasting every drop she gave me.

Heaven must taste like bitter honey and ripe peaches.

The sun began to set as our moment of pleasure concluded. Exhausted and breathless, she rested her head on top of my chest. My arm was wrapped around her to comfort her, to keep her close.

I lay down beside her wondering: How long can we go on like this? With one question out of her mouth, I, unfortunately, got my answer.

“You freaked out in the confession booth,” she said her observation out of the blue. “I know. I’m sorry,” I mumbled my apologies. She looked up at me for answers.

“I…” I trailed off as I desperately sought out for the right words. “I can’t have sex with you…. completely have sex with you,” I sighed. She rose from my chest and sat up on the bed. “Why not?” she asked in a stern tone.

I averted my gaze and directed it on the ceiling. “I can’t have sex with you ‘cause that confirms it,” I frowned. “Confirms what?” she scoffed. From my peripheral vision, I watch her get up from my bed and search for clothes.

“We drank and kiss and I already blew you,” she let out a dry laugh. As she got dressed again, ready to storm out, she scoffed: “What difference does shoving your cock inside of me ma—“

“I can’t have sex with you because I will fall in love with you.”

Her stare bore onto my soul. As quietly as I could, I sat up from my bed. “Loving someone like me would ruin you,” I gave her a weak smile. “It will eventually ruin me too.”

I expected anger and blind rage to seethe out of her. Instead, she sat at the edge of the bed and returned to my side. She reached her hand out to me. Reluctantly, I took it and held on.

“I don’t even know you.”  
“And I you.”

The truth of our emotional walls sunk in. We were so good at hiding our personal skeletons. I wonder if we’d even feel the same once they came out.

Would she even look at the same once she found out what I am?

My head was lowered the whole time. With my shame settling in, I couldn’t bare facing her. I felt her inching closer to me. Lifting my chin with her finger, she gave me a soft smile.

Before I can even react, she mounted herself on top of me, giving me the warmest kiss I felt in my whole life. She demanded that I kept my eyes on her as she took her dress off once again.

As my cock began to harden in anticipation, she wrapped her arms around my neck. I guided her by the hips once she parted her legs. Biting her bottom lip in anticipation, I lowered her warm cunt on my throbbing member.

“You told me I’m yours,” she murmured. “Tell me everything then.”


	8. Part VIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is my truth, tell me yours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I don't know if this is a good chapter. I did make myself sad while writing it. Fair advice: don't write angst and smut while listening to Death Cab for Cutie's "Transatlanticism."

Once he entered me, I was completely his. 

All of those one night stands made me realize one thing. It wasn’t empty “I love yous” I sought out for or a touch of a one-time lover’s embrace. Once he pumped into me, it dawned on me—warmth. 

It’s the warmth of his grin, his subtle touches, his soothing voice, his fluttering kisses, his embrace, and his late-night musings. All of those he willingly gave me. During the longest winter of my life, he gave me warmth. 

As I pressed down on his lap, letting him enter me for the first time, I felt a wave of selfishness hit me. I prayed silently that my flustered cheeks hid my shame. Once I started moving hips, he placed his index finger below my chin. 

“Don’t look away now,” he murmured, calling attention to my averted gaze. “I wanted this too.” 

His reassurance came in the form of a kiss. Slowly, his hands made its way to my hips. He guided my slick wetness into his hardened member. He didn’t want me to look away. He wanted me to witness how he’d claim me as his.

Slow yet hard thrusts began to fill my already dripping cunt. I tried my hardest not to close my eyes from the waves of pleasure and frustration hit me. As he watched me gnaw on my bottom lip, trying my hardest to keep my eyes open, he savored the sight of me getting teased to no end.

“Tell me,” he growled. “How long have you wanted this, hmm?” Tired of playing games, he began to pick up speed. My arms around his neck started to droop down. While he filled up my walls with his six-inch, I gripped onto his thighs, fighting the sensation to let a whimper out. 

“Have you dreamt of this? Me balls deep in you? Fucking you senseless?” 

He barraged me with questions when I could only respond with suppressed whimpers. His quarters echoed with skins slapping onto one another. His grip on my hips tightened as he bounced me up and down his cock. At that singular moment, he made it his mission to fuck the composure out of me.

His quickest turn on was my docility. As his six-inch twitch at the sight of me obeying his every command, I failed to conceal my whimpers. My convulsing cunt betrayed any feign of composure I exuded. My defeat made him confident. It gave him a faint illusion of control.

It didn’t take too long for my first orgasm to hit. Once I felt the rush of juices in my walls, I pulled his curls with my free hand. I tried to gain some control. But of course, I failed to no avail. 

He smirked at the sight of my small quest for power. For a small moment, I thought he would lay me down and give my loins a breather. But he wasn’t done with me—not one bit. 

Once he felt my juices on his cock, he grabbed me by the hair and pulled me down to his mattress. My fluttering eyes gave in and closed to savor this moment. When his rough hands pinned my wrists, something primal came over him.

“Fuck, look at this,” his dark tone rang in my ears. “Look at what you’re making me do to you,” he murmured. He pulled in and out of me with no clear sense of rhythm. It was purely animalistic; fast, hard and merciless. My ears began to fill with his grunts and sinful moans disguised as growls. He knew he was getting to me, but he’ll be damned if he let me know my true effect on him. With every thrust, any common sense to keep quiet left the window. 

When my eyes fluttered, I caught glimpse of him staring down on me. Sweat was building on his brows and his intensity wavered. Control was what he wanted from this transaction. Still, he couldn’t help but be in awe of me—of what I was capable of. 

“Is this what you wanted?” he murmured. Before I can even conjure a response, his thumb began circling my clit, leaving me to answer only in incoherent moans. “Claiming your tight cunt? Bring the sinner outta me? The real me?” 

I manage to let out a soft chuckle. Out of nowhere, a surge of strength came over me. I manage to sat up and crashed my lips onto his; tongues battling for dominance, biting his lower lip until it’s red. With a whisper, I answered: “Remember, you wanted this too.”

Is this what Eve felt when she bit into that apple? Was this what Mary Magdalene tried so hard to conceal?

Shaken. I was completely shaken under him. I was failing to conceal moans of pleasure, barely having a grip on my desires. A string of curses and incoherent phrases spurted out of my mouth. 

And when my thighs started to shake, he couldn’t bear but moan at the sight of me squirting uncontrollably. He watched me in pure awe. I guess even he couldn’t believe what he can make me do. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he pulled out before he can release his seed in me. By instinct, I laid down on my stomach and opened my mouth. My gaze fell on his face dripping with sweat and flustered to no end. 

Cracking a smile, he let me take him in between my lips. Just the warmth of my tongue made his cock drip with his white, hot load as it slid down my throat. I treated it like a sacrament; I drank it willingly and wholeheartedly. 

Usually, I get up and leave once I got what I wanted. Maybe I wasn’t as selfish as I thought.

Our ribcages were unable to conceal our heartbeats’ loud thrumming. I rested on his bed stroking his hair absentmindedly, while his head found solace on top of my chest. He held me down by wrapping his arms around my hips. 

If I didn’t know any better, the thought of my absence frightened him. 

The lull in the air turned my momentary bliss to sheer anxiety. With one thick gulp, I spurted out a question. “Did… did I fuck everything up?” I mumbled. I don’t know if I asked that question to him or to myself. 

“Darlin’, I was already fucked up before you met me,” a dry chuckle followed his response. I rolled my eyes and let out a small smirk. “I’m serious,” I sighed at his sarcastic antics. “So am I.”

Our exchange hung in the air for quite some time. Quietly, his free hand traced the curves of my hips as he struggled to string his words together. I wondered what he was ashamed of. I wondered if he was the right choice, regardless of given circumstances.

After one deep breath filling his lungs and out, he told me his truth in exchange for mine.

Music guided him before he let God in his life. Like me, he wanted to escape the small town he was cooped up in. Loud sounds from amplifiers were his hymns and drunken conversations with friends were his gospel. Recreational drugs, cheap alcohol, and voyeuristic sex were his only sacraments.

Groupies were his parishioners and the band became his apostles

His dream was bigger than himself. Hell, his ego was bigger than himself. Like every frustrated small-town artist, The Animals’ “We Got to Get Out of This Place” became his personal anthem. He was hell-bent on making it big—and he didn’t let anything stop him.

“I wanna be the Maori John Morrison,” he laughed at the absurdity of his teenage dream. “How dumb was that?”  
It wasn’t dumb at all. Or at least, that’s what it looked like to me. He obviously had the looks, definitely the talent too. It wasn’t too far-fetch. Was it dumb? Or misguided? Maybe. 

Greatness often was a mixture of sheer delusion and dumb luck. Or at least, that’s what we both thought to a point. 

It all took a turn when a major label fell on their laps. Local radio plays were picking up songs he jotted down on a beaten up notebook, their small following started to gain traction and performances filled their schedules. Hope glimmered in his eyes, that maybe, just maybe, he was meant to be somebody. 

But dumb luck can only take you so far. That’s the ethos of the universe after all.

It only took one night for him to lose it all. He was in the driver seat as they rushed to a meeting with the label. Turns out, false bravado brought by alcohol and driving late at night weren't the best of partners. 

With one wrong swerve to avoid a feral fox, control, dreams, and lives went down the drain. He lived to tell the tale—but he never truly lived after that. 

“Couldn’t afford therapy, couldn’t stand AAs,” he cursed under his breath. “So my sister came to me one day and said: Come to Church with me.” I gazed down at him and saw him smiling at the thought of refuge, of physical and spiritual solace.

The Church didn’t completely reform him. Still, it gave him a sense of purpose. It gave him direction when he was directionless. It gave him somewhere to turn to when hope was just another word, yet its meaning became loss on him.

“Obviously, not the perfect minister,” he laughed at the thought of being holier than thou. “But I dunno. Just the thought of fixing broken souls and finding direction with a community,” he managed to crack a smile. “It gave me a purpose.”

I stroked his hair and only listened to his exchange of truth. In one breath, he tore down his walls and showed me who he was. 

“Shouldn’t you be running for the hills now?” he jested, breaking the silence between us. I let out a soft chuckle to appease his attempt on humor. “Well, your story was better than my theory.”

“What’dya think I became a minister?”  
“Dunno. Thought you’re just a sexually repressed Catholic.”“Aren’t we all?”

Our pillow talk was filled with laughter and musings. After he bore his truth, I told him mine. I told him how music to him was photography to me. I hinted how grief and fuckups led to losing my only friend and my father passing on. With one swoop, I let my skeletons dance out of the closet and he watched without judgment.

I asked him, out of sheer curiosity, if he regrets doing this with me. “I don’t know yet,” was his response before slumber took us in. 

Sun rays peering out of his windowsill awakened me. Usually, I would panic and prepare for my quiet walk of shame. But there wasn’t any shame in my body—only yearning.

I turned my body to face him. It was beyond me if he was still asleep or wide awake with possible regret. In the stillness of dawn, I found myself trailing my finger from his neck all the way to his spine. I wanted to scoot closer and hold him the way he held onto me for dear life.

The urge in me to hold him, to protect him from everything came over me. But my hands trembled in fear when I tried to reach out. 

So while he was in deep slumber, I got my bearings, put yesterday’s clothes on, and left him in his safe space. No goodbyes were exchanged or morning kisses to be had. We might need each other, but that’s simply a luxury we don’t have just yet.

Paranoia started to sink in as I attempted to leave his quarters. For a brief moment, I thought my racing heart became audible alongside the creak of his wooden floors. I slowly descended from his staircase in hopes that I can leave as if I was never there.

But when I took one final step, a woman’s voice greeted me from the living room.

"So, you're the one fucking my brother?" 

Selina’s voice wasn’t accusatory in any way. It wasn’t filled with anger or disgusts. If I wasn’t any wiser, I would suggest she was curious, almost impressed. 

She sat on the couch as she eyed from top to bottom. I couldn’t muster up the courage to move or utter a word. She might’ve not accused me of anything, but my paranoia bled into shame once her voice filled the unbearable silence. 

After a moment has passed, she asked me to sit down and have coffee with her. No words were exchanged between us. We only had silence and unanswered questions. 

Within the silence, I knew she didn’t want answers from me. She wanted answers from him. I watched the once steaming hot cup of coffee ran cold. As much as possible, I avoided her gaze in fear I would be decimated on sight. 

He eventually ran down the stairs with his shirt and boxers on. With a smile on his face and pep on his step, he was deluded enough to believe we got away with it. But that one final step confirmed how wrong he was. 

“Selin—“  
“Are you insane?!”

The usually stoic Selina threw a pillow on his face in hopes to knock some sense into him. Fingers were pointed and accusations were thrown between them, while I sat there staring at the cold cup of coffee. I was the unbearable silence. An elephant in a room I shouldn’t even be in.

All that echoed in my mind was I fucked up, I ruined everything, I fucked up. 


	9. Part IX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Who will love you when I leave?”

I fucked up. I ruined everything. 

How oblivious was I to think we could go on like this? That I can keep my relationship with God, have my sister and my parishioners’ respect, and wake up to her every morning of my life. Every waking moment—only with her. 

Under my periphery, I saw her just sitting there, ever so still. Unmoving and frightened. It’s a sight to see a strong-willed woman frightened, probably for the first time in her young life. 

Seeing her in such a state made me realize everything. I care more about her than myself. The ultimate sign of a true Christian—martyrdom.

“Sleeping with your parishioner? This is a new low, even for you,” Selina’s anger seethed through her teeth. She kept hitting my arms. It was out of rage mixed in with overbearing concern. 

Ever since the accident, she became my rock. It was God, it was the Church, and then my sister. When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when the accident happened, my sister asked me to put away childish things.

It was for my safety—for everyone else’s safety. 

“Selina, you don’t understand—“

“YOU ARE SLEEPING WITH A LOCAL PARISHIONER. YOU’RE A PRIEST.”

She enunciated every word with disappointment and blinding fury. With my arms crossed, taking the impacts from her rage, I studied her face. Her face echoed every person I let down; my family, my friends’ family, and then myself. 

“I know,” I said in defeat. She threw hands in the air, pacing around the room right after. “Oh, did you now? You knew?” she scoffed. “So you know what this is?” she pointed her finger at me. 

“Sacrilege.” 

Selina’s cold laughter echoed. Mocking me, mocking our situation. “You’re so smart, dear brother,” she shook her head. She faced me dead on. 

“Yet,” one hit.

“You,” and another.

“Always,” two on one go.

“Seem,” multiple hits. A combo.

“To…” she hesitated. I took a long deep breath, knowing what she was thinking, knowing what we were all thinking. “Fuck up,” I said plainly. 

Stillness overcame the three of us. The silence, now more than ever, was deafening. According to 2 Corinthians 5:17, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; old things have passed away; behold, all things have become new.

When I saw her stood up and walked out of the door, I knew that the Church had not changed me. I am still the same lost soul that walked inside the rectory for the first time. And I passed on my curse to the one I only truly loved like a disease.

Selina and I stood there as the door closed shut behind her. Again, there was that awful damning silence. My sister’s gaze softened while her furrowed brows remained. 

“What were you thinking?” she asked, sincerely. The rage must’ve gone out of her system. Compassion overtook her once more. “You could lose everything.”

I simply replied with a weak smile. Taking a few steps closer to her, I pulled her close and kissed her temple. The kiss of Judas—ridden with guilt and utter defeat. 

“I just did.” 

The first time I entered her was the last time I saw her. She never came to my parish for weeks after that. It was too bad, my sermons were actually getting good. 

Bringing out my old activist past into my sermons turned out well. Honestly, I think it humanized me in their eyes. I talked about social issues, why Christ was the true activist, and all of those forward-thinking preachings I actually resonated with. 

Parishioners trusted me more with their problems. They’re not exactly groupies, but my flock of seven grew in numbers. I guess active parishioners are the Christian equivalent of that. They come in droves—frightening and delighting me all at once.

Selina was taking each day with stride. She talks and laughs with me again. At least, breakfast wasn’t as cold and dreary anymore. 

One breakfast, she confided something in me. 

“I got into Berkley,” she slid an acceptance note across the table. I didn’t bother looking up. I knew she had to fly away someday. “That’s great. Take it.”

To be honest, I never expected her to rot in this town with me. She was the prodigy and the devout of our family. I, obviously, was the black sheep.

Selina had the brains and talent and will power. But her love and compassion for me halted her from dreaming. In the past, she threw her classical teachings to live my rock ’n roll dreams with me. When the accident happened, she stopped dreaming altogether to nurse me back to health.

She looked at me with shock. I didn’t know what she was expecting. Disappointment? Worry? Fuck all of those. She needed to live her life and dream for herself for once. 

“That’s it? Won’t you… I don’t know… stop me?” she asked, wanting to see any sign of negativity or reluctance. I took a deep breath and placed the cereal I was scuffing down on the table. “When are you leaving?”

“Hey—“  
“I’m fine.”

Selina’s eyes kept darting on mine. I gazed back with softness and reassurance. “Really, please. Live your life,” I reached out to her hand, placing mine on top of hers. “I’ll be fine.”

She stood up and shook off my grasp. Circling around the table, she went behind me, wrapped her arms around my shoulder, and gave me a tight squeeze. A genuine display of affection that we never gave one another after that accident. 

Resting her head on top of mine, she sighed. “Who will love you when I leave?”

I don’t know the answer to that. No matter how much I knelt in front of the crucifix at lonely hours nor how my parishioners found solace in my preachings. When she walked out of my door, I lost everything. 

Sometimes, I find myself hanging around the parish after the service was done. I wait by the door frame. When I feel like it, I wait for her to catch me smoking behind the parish. 

My weekdays were dedicated to playing guitar by my parish’s steps. Often, I hoped her laughter will greet me or her sheepish smile. I’d even take her backhanded compliments if it meant seeing her again.

I fiddled a few chords until I gave in to the temptation of looking up from my guitar. No frame of the woman that took my heart. Just the cool, unforgiving vast emptiness in me personified by nature. 

A huge sigh escaped my lips. Holding the fretboard of my guitar, my free hand opened the beaten up notebook on my side. I’ve been writing a lot more lately. 

Now that she’s gone, I found myself jotting down my thoughts again. The Christian in me says prayers can console the troubled heart. But even God doesn’t have answers for me right now. 

I studied my chicken scratch handwriting, muttering the lyrics as my gaze followed every syllable and chord written. “I have a thought,” I started singing to myself. “Nah. Doesn’t sound right.” 

I cleared my throat. With one strum, the song flowed out of me, like an inner hymn. 

_ I had a thought, dear _

_ However scary _

_ About that night _

_ The bugs and the dirt  
  
_

_ Why were you digging? _

_ What did you bury _

_ Before those hands pulled me _

__ From the earth?  
  


_ I will not ask you where you came from _

_ I will not ask you, neither should you _

_ Honey just put your sweet lips on my lips _

_ We should just kiss like real people do _

The song flew with the cool, countryside breeze. It’s silly that I’m in love with someone who I don’t know where they lived. If I did know, I’d be pounding the door, looking for questions—for her. 

Absence makes the heart grow fonder. I was dead when she found me. She brought me back to life. Now she’s gone, I felt more than dead. Nothing. 

I abided by my oath after my last attempt on waiting for her. I said my teachings, abstained from liquor, lessened my smoking, and feign a smile to those around me. Rock bottom never felt this healthy. 

Huh. Maybe rock bottom isn’t so bad. 

A broken soul, a broken pact with God. These thoughts flooded my brain as I sat on the confession booth. Usually, I encounter three or five parishioners a day. But it was a weekday. 

Usually, my weekdays were all for her. I wonder if she felt as broken as I was. I wondered if I had settled in her mind as she did in mine.

This was pointless. I’d rather get hammered in my office and listen to J-Lo at that moment. But once I got up and parted the curtains, I heard a familiar voice on the other side.

“Bless me father, for I have sinned,” she began. “My last confession was a couple of weeks ago.”

I opened the grilled partition between us. It was a parishioner—my parishioner. Hearing her voice again froze me in my steps. Without missing beat, I sat back down to console and listen.

“Go… go ahead, my child,” I found myself shaking. From anxiety or excitement, I’m unsure. We sat there in silence for a while. My mind was reeling on what she might say or do. 

I want to say so much, want to do so much. But I was confined from where I was. I always had been regardless if I met her or not.

“I’m lost,” she finally spoke up. Hearing her so hurt pained me. Pained me in ways car crashes can’t compare. Stricken me with grief that an old friend dying can’t live up to. “And… afraid.”

“Of what?” I found myself gazing down, fingers fumbling. “I, well, I’m not the most Christian woman in this parish.” We ended up chuckling together at that glaring fact. “There’s drinking, violence, lots of sex outside of marriage—well, you know that.”

That I did. That I missed the most, apart from her touch, her laughter, and basically everything about her. “I’m frightened… of… losing and forgetting things,” she tore her walls down, bit by bit. 

“I’ve lost so much. Opportunities, people, myself,” she jotted down a list in her head. “I’m so accustomed to lost. I don’t even know what I want sometimes.” I nodded in solidarity, “It’s okay. It’s okay to not know what you want.”

“No, but I know what I want,” she let out a dry laugh. “I know exactly what I want. Right now. But it’s bad.” It is bad. Pure sacrilege, even. 

“What’s that?” I feigned ignorance. She scoffed from the other side, knowing that I knew what she was about to say. Shared knowledge. An inside joke. 

“I want someone to tell me what to wear in the morning. I want someone to tell me what to wear every morning. I want someone to tell me what to eat,” she began an onslaught of rants. And I sat there and I listened. The pain in my chest growing in size. 

Then as if the partition was see-through, I saw her tears rolling down her cheeks. Pain engulfing her. “What to like, what to hate, what to rage about, what to listen to, what band to like, what to joke about, what to believe in, who to vote for, who to love and how to tell them.”

She briefly paused. Wiping her tears with her father’s jacket sleeve, she heaved and heaved, trying to muster up the courage to go on. I sat there completely helpless as she was. 

I knew, deep in my heart, 10 Hail Marys cannot alleviate the mess of our own making. 

“I want someone to tell me how to live my life, Father, because so far I think I’ve been getting it wrong,” she mumbled. With one deep breath, she looked at me through the partition. “I don’t believe your bullshit, and I know that scientifically nothing I do makes any difference in the end anyway, I’m still scared.”

“Why am I still scared?” she asked me, frightened. “Please, just tell me—tell me what to fucking do, Father.”

Once my mouth opened, the haze between us cleared. “Kneel.”

“W-what?” she asked, completely in the dark. “Just… just kneel.” She did what she was told. Without her prior knowledge, I exited the booth. 

I opened the curtain concealing her. And there she was, frail and ever so broken. I never felt so seen by someone. If my gut feeling is right, she felt the same way with me. 

Her eyes met mine hovering over her. Uninterested with the power play, I knelt down to her level. She looked with misty eyes and dried tears. 

“I ruined you,” she hiccuped. “Just like I ruin and destroy everything good in my life. I—“ With one pull of her arm, I embraced her, consoling her. 

“Please. Never say that,” I mumbled. “Don’t ever say that to me. You are the best thing that ever happened to me. You don’t know how perfect you are.” I held her as she fell apart in my arms. 

I rested my head on top of hers. Out of nowhere, Selina’s words one faithful morning echoed in my mind. Who will love you when I leave?

“I would,” I answered a question that only played in my head. In confusion, she raised her head from my chest. “What?” Without a slither of doubt or guilt, I said the words haunting me for weeks. 

“I love you.” 

I’m tired of rock bottom. Healthy or unhealthy, I don’t seem to care. I want to feel alive again. I want her dainty yet strong hands to pull me from the Earth. 

Her lips crashed into mine. Slowly, we both rose up from where we were kneeling. I pulled her by the hip and took her out of the booth. Our hands wandering over each other’s bodies. 

We’re touched starved and hungry for any ounce of affection.

She turned the tables in an instant. With lips still locked together, she pressed me on the booth’s wall. Someone could walk in any minute. 

But I don’t care anymore and neither did she. 

Our tongues danced behind each other’s mouths. Watering, aching, starving for each other’s taste. Her hips buckled onto mine. In an instant, a tent rose from my trousers. 

She grinded her crotch on mine. As I cupped her face, biting her bottom lip, sucking on her tongue, the dreaded need to feel her walls on my throbbing cock filled me. I never wanted someone this much—never needed anyone this much. 

I quickly unbuckled my belt, dropping my trousers for my cock to spring out freely. She took the hint and wrapped her arms around my neck. Unable to contain myself, I lifted her by her thighs, her knees buckled on my hips. 

With one free hand, I sought out to remove her underwear. Turns out she never wavered from my instructions. I broke our kiss for a brief second. Staring at her in awe, my lips gave her a soft smirk. 

“You knew this was happening didn’t you?” I chuckled. She shared a laugh with me, shaking her head. “I just came prepared, Father.” 

Quirking a brow, I kept her gaze on mine. I slid into her without warning. I want to pump my seed into her. I want her to scream for Holy retribution. All I want to hear were her “oh yes” and “oh gods” echoing in God’s house. 

“Did your pretty pussy missed me?” I guided her hips, letting her perky ass bounce on my heavy cock. “Fuck your so tight, your walls are so tight on my cock, darlin’,” I hissed. She pulled my curls with force, absolutely yelping pleasure. 

“I missed you,” she gasped. She took me in like a good girl. My best girl—the only girl for me. The one I existed for love if everybody else would leave. 

Greeting her lips with wanton kisses, I murmured: “I miss you too. I missed you so much.” I gave her a final kiss before parting ways. Pressing my thumb onto her lips for her to suck, I gave her clit a nice rub while her wet walls engulfed my dick. 

“I want you to melt for me,” I hissed. My pumps grew slower in pace, teasing her, torturing her with pleasure. “Would you cum for me, child? Please cum for me.”

I begged her. I pleaded for her to assure me. I want her to assure me it will always be like this. Heaven or Hell, it will always be us, together all throughout. 

Once I felt her walls constrict around my cock, her pussy convulsed. I didn’t stop pumping in her. The rhythm was erratic, reckless, uncaring. 

Her mewls and moans echoed around the parish. To help her simmer down, my one free hand cradled her head, pushing it against my shoulder. Her muffled moans comforted and excited me all the same. 

“Where do you want me to cum?” I asked her softly. My breath hitched at the thought of filling up her walls with my seed. “O-on my face,” she spurted out. Shit, there’s so much I want to do to her—such filthy, unspeakable things. 

The feeling of her ass slapping onto my balls heightened my sensations. I closed my eyes, the burning white light engulfing me. I was peaking, so so close. 

My grip on her hips loosened. Without missing a beat, she knelt down and took my cock in her hot pretty mouth. She jerked its base to help me cum at ease. 

Fuck, she didn’t need to do that. Just the sight of her subjugation was enough. 

“S-shit,” I clenched my jaw and closed my eyes shut. With my fluids starting to spurt out, she took it off her mouth and let it hang on her face. I let the white flash of light take me in as I arched my neck. 

I swear, every time we do this, I feel closer to divinity. 

Opening my eyes, there she was. Kneeling down for me and taking my load on her beautiful face. I jerked my cock off to get the remaining load out of me. 

She bore her eyes into mine. A sense of relief washed over her face. Covered with my seed, she stared at me in awe wearing the warmest, softest smile. 

I pulled her closer by the jaw. “Part your lips for me,” I mumbled. Pulling down her jaw, I slowly shoved my cock into her mouth. “Take this and eat it, for this is my body."

Looking down at her, I took a mental picture of what she looked like at that moment. Serene and free from troubles. With my seed glistening on her forehead, I drew the sign of the cross as if it was sacramental ash. 

Once my weakened member was in between her lips, I rammed it into her throat. “Do this in remembrance of me.”

Omens should often follow us right about now. But the crucifix and the altar didn’t waver. As for the two of us, we didn’t spontaneously combust. I was tired of running away and neglecting myself. 

Her words echoed in my head. I knew exactly what I want, right now. I did too—I wanted her. And I’m more than willing to throw this empty shell of a life all for her. 

“Let’s never come here again,” I swore to her. “I mean that with the greatest of compliments.”

If I burn for this, she will burn at my side. But at least we were happy. Even in the briefest moments in our lives. 

Isn’t that what life should be about?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was weirdly easier to write. I think this is the direction I want to take with this story. We're coming to a close with chapter 10 being the final chapter. Anyways, thanks for the ride. I hope this story meant a lot to you as it did to me.


	10. Part X

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a love story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I hope this was worth the wait. Thanks for being in this journey with me.

Is it God or is it me?

The parishioner’s words echoed in her Minister’s head. After their desecration in his parish, they took off to her place by the countryside. He never knew what to expect of her home life.

When he entered her sanctum, the place was so simple yet its walls tell wounded hymns and unshared stories. Stories she said in passing or kept to herself for so long. Her faded childhood artwork told him she’s a dreamer, numerous photos of her with her father screamed he was her life, and the hand-me-down clothes scattered around the house meant she was someone’s legacy but herself.

He dreamt of waking up next to her every morning. Once she let him in her home, his dream became a reality.

The rays of sunshine hit his face. It took him a moment to realize he wasn’t in his quarters or near his parish. Once he got his bearings, a sense of relief overtook him. He never felt so weightless.

During a half-awake exchange of lofty sentences, she brought an important question to his attention. “Is it God or is it me?” she asked him with her legs wrapped around his torso, holding him from behind. Her head nestled at the crook of his neck.

Leaning on to her pretty little head, he sighed. “You know, it’s always been you.”

Love is awful. It’s awful. It’s painful. It’s frightening. It makes you doubt yourself, judge yourself, distance yourself from the other people in your life.  
  
It makes you selfish. It makes you creepy, makes you obsessed with your hair, makes you cruel, makes you say and do things you never thought you would do. It’s all any of us want, and it’s hell when we get there. So no wonder it’s something we don’t want to do on our own.

They listened to the morning calm together; the rustling of leaves, chirping of birds, and the quiet townsfolk around them. Hope was something lost between the two of them. But as they bathe in the sun rays together, unsure with the ‘whys’ and ‘hows’ of it, they have this eerie certainty that hope lied within them.

He knew the love he’s searching for wasn’t in the House of God. Or at least, he knew it now. Love is something he never wanted to do on his own.

If he had to take the leap of faith for someone, it might as well be her.

“I was taught if we’re born with love then life is about choosing the right place to put it. People talk about that a lot, feeling right, when it feels right it’s easy,” Their first hellos were at a funeral, while their last goodbyes to this town were at a wedding. The Minister spoke his last homily during the first day of a newlywed couple’s life.

He never was a marriage person. But somehow, having a wedding as his last hurrah as a minister felt right.

“But I’m not sure that’s true. It takes strength to know what’s right. And love isn’t something that weak people do,” he felt his gaze land on her. She watched him preach in her usual position, last row near the door. In exchange for his attention, she gave him a soft, encouraging smile.

Selena, on the other hand, watched the two as she sat by her organ. These two siblings have decided to live their lives and make peace with their choices. With Selena being Selena, she couldn’t help but worry about her brother’s future.

Then, when she looked at his parishioner, she’s assured that everything will be okay. He wouldn’t risk it all if this parishioner wasn’t worth anything.

“They say, being a romantic takes a hell of a lot of hope,” he said his final lines. His gaze never wavered from hers, blatantly ignoring the couple before him. “I think what they mean is, when you find somebody that you love, it feels like hope.”

His flock was unaware that this was the last they will hear of him. As for his last words to his parish, there wasn’t a dry eye at that wedding. His parishioner, ever so unfeeling, even shed a tear or two.

He noticed how she wiped them so quickly. Biting the inside of his cheek, he smiled to himself how her vulnerability was now a shared secret between the two of them. He also thought to himself how he wanted to be the alchemy in her. 

“So thank you for bringing us all here today,” he ended his homily. “To take words from this book of love: Be strong and take heart, all you who hope in the Lord.”

These are the words he parted to everyone before he left. At the same time, these words were his own advice to himself.

The Minister officially announced his leave of absence to his flock a week later. He knew the process that will follow after would be painful. But he already had his share of pain within the parish, what’s another onslaught of paperwork and Catholic shaming? 

Selena had come to terms with her brother’s self-anointed emancipation. Agnostics often say thoughts and prayers go nowhere. Every night, since he had decided to officially leave the priesthood, she hoped the naysayers were wrong.

If she can’t follow where he wanted to go, she prayed at least her positive thoughts would stay with him always.

He gazed at his parish for the last time. With his beaten-up acoustic guitar, ratty old notebooks, dusty photo albums, and rarely worn civilian clothes, he closed the back of his pick up truck. Excited yet nervous to get behind the wheel and start his new life.

“Father,” he heard a familiar voice call him. Turning around to see who it was, his mouth fell agape for a moment. “Hec!” his shocked demeanor wavered when he smiled at the sight of his old parishioner.

“Out from jail, I reckon,” The Minister welcomed him with a firm handshake. “They can’t keep me locked forever,” he muttered. Hector broke the handshake once he took notice of The Minster’s belongings behind the pickup truck.

“Going somewhere?” Hector asked upfront. The Minister nodded, hiding the smile forming on his face. “I’m… I’m leaving actually.” Keeping his gaze to the ground, he wasn’t able to catch the sense of relief on Hector’s face.

“Let me guess, Selena’s staying,” Hector’s gruff voice started deducing. The Minister nodded in response, unable to shake off the feeling he’s being reprimanded by his own father. “And you’re… not coming back?”

The Minister replied with a chuckle and a shake of his head. Acknowledging his silent affirmation, Hector nodded as he took everything in. He never cared about anyone’s personal business, especially when it came to The Minister.

But he knew what it was like to feel dead every day. He also knew the look of a man who just had hope brought back to them.

“I’m sure, whoever they are, they’re worth erm…” Hector motioned off to the knick-knacks huddled at the back of his pickup. “…all of this,” he crossed his arms, keeping his stoic front on check.

“Yeah,” The Minister assured him. He took a deep breath, “she is.”

When he drove off to pick her up, anxiety started to resurface as the gas burned on. She lived nearby the parish. Still, the journey felt like months due to the load of contemplation he did behind the wheel.

His feet began to grow cold. Questions started to bombard him every turn he made, every deep breath he exhaled. Did he make the right decision? How would they survive? What if he just fucked his whole life up and hers?

The cold countryside breeze seeped into car windows. Still, he felt like a sinner at church with the heat coursing through his body. His forehead began to sweat and he felt the car interiors closing in on him.

The last time he made big decisions behind the wheel of a car, his life changed for the worse. Who’s to say it wouldn’t happen again with her?

The Catholic Church taught him a lot. And yet, even divine forces weren’t powerful enough to make him a little less skeptical about miracles. He believes doubts make people human. 

If this was to be taken as fact, he was the most human he could ever be when he stopped by her house.  
  
His knuckles turned white from his intense grip of the steering wheel. It wasn’t only anxiety and doubt that plagued him. Fear also weighed him down to his driver’s seat.

But when he lifted his gaze, he saw her standing on her porch. The sight of her made him forget all doubts, worries, and fears. She might be the closest thing he’ll ever get to a miracle.

He stepped out of his car to receive her into his arms. Like a movie script ending, she abandoned her packed suitcase on the porch and ran to his arms as fast as she could. He spun her around and relished the moment.

The two of them clung to each other for dear life. Both of them thought mid-spin if they romanticized this relationship way too much. Even though they found each other now, who’s to say feelings won’t change within a week or a month or a year?

Those are miracles for you. They felt divine and lack logical explanation, hence how frightening it was to experience them.

Once he stopped spinning her, she broke into jovial laughter. He wouldn’t mind seeing that brand of happiness for the rest of his life. She saw his brown eyes bore on her as her laugh wavered. She never felt so at ease, so seen by someone else.

Being seen by someone always felt mortifying. This discomfort was something they both shared. To be seen by someone is to be understood, flaws, and all. Good thing they didn’t mind being seen by each other.

She felt like hope to him, while he felt like hope to her. Fuck the doubt and the future.

“I love you.”

During their trip to the city, they stopped for the evening at a nearby bed and breakfast in a town where no one knew who they were. They quickly fell into old habits once they settled in their room. Bare naked and clinging onto one another.

He sat on the edge of the bed, while she sat on his lap facing him, riding his cock as if it was her duty.

His pants echoed around the room, harmonizing with her moans. His back reddened with her scratches. Her ass cheeks became beet red with his grips and slaps. They made love like they could lose one another tomorrow.

It wasn’t a lewd as the erotic display they did in his parish. There wasn’t a statement to be made, unlike the last time they blew each other’s brains out. They didn’t hide who they were to one another any longer. And if someone refused to turn a blind eye, they wouldn’t give two fucks.

It was just love in full display—that’s all.

I love you, she said. Her words continued to echo in his head. She said it without hesitation and without missing a single beat. She said it as if their collective anxieties weren’t in full display earlier that day.

He lowered her on his hardened cock. As his cock sunk deep into her tight walls, his breath hitched while gazing on her bliss-filled eyes. Her words were more than just a statement—they were a promise.

She rode him slow and steady. While she straddled him, he kept her eyes on her, desperate to let her witness what she does to him. There’s a voice in him that wanted to say her love for him might pass, might morph into disdain.

Instead of pushing that cynicism out of the open, he pulled her closer to him and crashed his lips onto hers. 

His mind wanted him to say, “It will pass.” With all the honesty in his body, he kept her close to his warmth, to his heartbeat, and told her what he knew all along—doubts or none.

“I love you too.”


	11. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One day we would tell everyone how we made something of ourselves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s so so nice to write about these to again. It’s in the minister’s perspective, since he’d be more sentimental about their relationship. I hope you guys enjoy and this is my treat for everyone who fell in love with this story.

Everyone might be right about us.

We’re sinners and we offend God. Just like the first couple. But what’s God to a woman’s love anyway? What has heaven got that waking up next to you don’t?

“Coffee, please.”

This is your way of saying ‘I love you’ every morning. Your way of saying ‘I cannot live without you’ and ‘every day with you is a gift.’ So in response, I groan and roll over from my comfortable position to do as I was as told. In service of you, out of love for you.

Every morning with you is a gift. A blessing I will trade for anything in the world. And no, not even God’s love. But you already knew that. You already witnessed that.

We were two lost souls who rarely took chances. Four years ago, we threw it all to hell and never went back. I took you to a town you’ve never known. A town I’ve known all my life.

In an abandoned home that once belonged to my family, we settled there and made our own roots. It starts with the sun rays hitting your face. Eventually, it’s partnered with a cup of coffee. Cheap or single origin never mattered to you.

Love is love and coffee is coffee. Better than with than without.

When your soul finally enters your body, you get up from our bed and poke your head by the kitchen doorway. You observe me as if you don’t know what I was doing. As you do, you creep up behind me and wrapped your arms around me, pressing your warm body heat against mine.

“Good morning,” you greet me at last. Lackadaisical and half awake, I mumble it back. “Sorry,” you say to make up for forcing me to brew morning coffee, knowing I’m barely a morning bird.

We do this back and forth every morning. I do not tire of it.

I turned on the coffee pot and placed the bag of beans down. Turning around to face you, I lift you by the waist. I’m greeted by a warm smile and light half-awake giggles. I place you by the counter to plant a kiss on your dry lips.

“It’s okay. We have to wake up some time anyways,” I assure you. I wasn’t a morning person before you met me. That doesn’t change now.

But if all it takes is a cup of coffee for you to stay, I’d grow my own beans if I have to.

We plot our days sitting by our porch. My childhood home may not be much, but we have each other and that’s what mattered. It used to be adorned with photographs from my youth. Now, it’s replaced by your snapshots of our lives.

It’s more or less the same every morning. We sit by the steps. You take in the warmth of caffeine, while mine stays by my side as I played guitar. I wonder if plucking my strings during sunrise annoyed you.

I always look at you for assurance, expecting a disgruntled expression to greet me. But it’s always a warm smile. A warm reassuring smile.

“Where are we going?” you ask me, taking a sip right after. We look upon the trees for answers. The cool ocean breeze hits us. Smiling as I play the tune stuck in my head, I often respond in variations, “Let’s play it by ear and find out.”  
  
The town grew accustomed to us. We’re not swimming in money, but we get by. Your freelance photography gig is working out better than you’ve hoped. As for me, working at the local radio station wasn’t so bad.

What we wanted came from unexpected places. The city was supposed to hold a new chapter. But it wasn’t for us.

We thought we’ll love the noise and the hustle. But it chewed us and spat us out in the end. Turns out, pursuing a creative career in the middle of your life wasn’t easy.

We dreamt too big. And I suppose, that was our fault.

After two months of slumming it out, we decided to leave our city dreams for my hometown. Your idea, not mine. I was reluctant at first, but anywhere with you seemed like paradise. Even places I thought I’ve condemned to hell.

Turns out just to be seen by each other was enough. Stuff of romance novels.

Selena comes by sometimes to hang out by the beach with us. You and her partner Cassandra get along well. We wrap our arms on one another, share stories from our past and present, and even laugh at inside jokes. I remember my sister saying, “We chose well, didn’t we?” I only gave her a smile and a hearty chuckle. “Yeah, supposed we did.” Even back then when she wasn’t fond of the two of us together, she knew I made a good choice with you.

Running away together gave me one fear. I feared that we’ll grow weary of each other.

But no matter how long the arguments were, how petty our spats can be, you were still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Your anger was breathtaking and I crumble before it. Blissful or spiteful, I crumble before you.

However, I’d be lying if I didn’t say making up after is the best part.

“Please, please, please.”

You mumble incoherently every time I take you from behind. If someone asked me, what’s the most beautiful sight you’ve ever seen? I’d have two answers; waking up next to you in the morning and watching you completely cockdumb for me.

Your hair tangled around my fists is your favorite part. As for me, it’s seeing your expression once I pull it and let your head rest on my shoulder. It’s the complete act of surrender. It’s the sign of trust that always gets me.

I kiss you, hungrily, completely wanton. It’s always messy, sloppy with our saliva intermingling. Back to the nights where doubts haunt me, I thought it what if was the sex I craved for? What if it wasn't love after all?

But as I thrust hard and deep inside of you, you make it a habit to open your fluttering eyes, fighting back this sense of euphoria pulling you in, and you smile at me softly. It gets me smirking. I know the joke’s on me.

The biggest punchline was it never was about the sex, it’s the act of selflessness and sheer adoration I sought out for. And you give it to me willingly every time.

“Hmm?” I act dumb, wanting to hear it from your pretty mouth. I love hearing you beg for what you demand of me. Your yearnings and your burning desires. “Fill my pussy, please.”

No matter how incoherent you become, I make you work for your desires. You already have me eating out of your palm. Might as well get something out of it.

My thrusts turn erratic when I feel the rush of your juices. I lick my lips, imagining how it tastes when it hits my tongue. Ripe peaches and bitter honey all the time. The sound your cunt makes when it’s close is music to my ears. It’s my favorite song and you’ll never know it.

“Is this all for me? Is your pussy all for me?” I whisper my questions to your ear, tugging your hair as I do so. “Yes, yes, yes. Fuck yes,” you groan in a rather raspy tone. Your throat weary of choking on my cock, weary of moaning and mewling all night.

I hiss through my teeth, trying to not unravel soon. I want this feeling to last forever. I want the sound of your wetness echoing in my eardrums. Your surrender tangible. You say my name like a prayer you’ve known all your life.

Is this what it feels to be divine? Your name tied to lofty praises? I was never the king of any domain. But every time I enter you, we became a royal we. This is the dynamic of our union forever.

“Fuck, I’m close. I’m so close. Fuck!”

Juices spilling from your thighs make me unravel in a heartbeat. Our fluids wet and sticky, dripping from your cunt. I wrap my arms around your waist and hold you close. The sound of skins slapping together replaced by our thrumming heartbeats.

When composure finally arrives, I kneel down as practiced. I obediently praise you with a tight grip on both of your thighs. I look up at your gaze with my tongue poking out. A longing sigh escapes from your lips.

I lick your stripe on one go before I lap, and lap, and lap.

The Jesus and Mary Chain once sang: “I’ll be your plastic toy.” When I was younger, I thought they were just being cheeky. But when I eat you out, push my spilling cum back inside, using it as our personal lube to fuck you with my sturdy fingers, I started to understand why they sang about.

“I love you when you’re like this,” I murmur in between licks. “Sweet for me, so obedient to me.” I shower you with praises before the devil in me takes over. Sucking your clit mercilessly is one thing, but lining up my drool with your needy hole is another.

Every finger I push inside drives you feral. There’s no pacing when I eat you out. Only hunger and lust. “My cock drives you insane, doesn’t it? You’re thinking about it right now, huh?” I tease your docility as I curl my fingers, hitting your g spot.

I scoff at your inability to answer without letting out shameless moans. “So cockdumb for me, m’dear. So willing and slutty for me,” I mock you as I lap you up. Making you cum can be my full-time job. But the real reward here is making you squirt.

My eyes bore into you. I feel my gaze grow dark, animalistic, demanding. Your cum drips into my fingers all sticky and wet. Overstimulate and completely euphoric.

I kiss your mound as I suck on your sensitive, throbbing clit. With a few more final pumps, I go faster and harder, showing no mercy on sight. I feel you convulse on my fingers. Once I pull it out, you come undone for me. Unashamed and grateful.

I love you when you’re like this.

Just wrapped around in each other’s embrace after a long day. No matter how great or shitty the day treats us, we know there’s always solace waiting for us. Here with you, you with me.

We’re never that lovey dovey couple. I don’t want us to be and neither do you. We kiss in secret, hold each other’s hands if necessary, and kept our romantic comedy moments to ourselves.

Despite the world never completely seeing how we love, we still love nonetheless.

I wonder what the future will hold for us. If we’d leave each other eventually or live together with a quaint little family, it’s quite hard to say. I, however, knew wanting.

I’d never trade all these memories I’ve had with you. I never lived in regret living God for you. I’d never trade your smiles and waves of laughter for someone else. I’d never trade the nights and mornings we’ve shared in this bed we lay in. This bed we made ourselves.

“Let’s do this again sometime,” you always joked before drifting to sleep. In response, I chuckle and say, “With you again? Always.”

We never completely lived up to our aspirations. You’re not the next Vivian Maier nor am I the threat to John Morrison’s throne. In retrospect, we live comfortably yet mediocre lives together.

But if we stayed in the town we were rotting in, if we never left the prison we built ourselves, we’d never know what genuine happiness feels like. What is scorn to the love we share?

Despite the universe’s indecisive mind, I don’t care what happens at the end. Death will always know that my favorite love story is ours. This has, and always will be, a love story.

One day we would tell everyone how we made something of ourselves. We mastered our own fate. And wrote our present together.

God, no matter how mighty he is, can never contest that.


End file.
